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TRAILS  THROUGH 
WESTERN  WOODS 


I     AKE  Angus  McDonald 


TRAILS  THROUGH 
WESTERN  WOODS 


By 
Helen  Fitzgerald  Sanders 


Illustrations  from  Photographs 
by  the  Author 


NEW  YORK  &  SEATTLE 

THE   ALICE    HARRIMAN   COMPANY 

1910 


Copyright,  1910,  by 
THE  ALICE  HARRIMAN  COMPANY 


Published.  July  1,  1910 


THB  PREMIER  FREBB 
NEW  YORK 


DEDICATION 

To  the  West  that  is  passing;  to  the  days 

that  are  no  more  and  to  the  brave, 

free  life  of  the  Wilderness  that 

lives  only  in  the  memory  oj 

those  who  mourn  its  loss 


90 
0) 


;^8(ii(J9 


PREFACE 

The  writing  of  this  book  has  been  pri- 
marily a  labour  of  love,  undertaken  in  the 
hope  that  through  the  harmonious  ming- 
ling of  Indian  tradition  and  descriptions 
of  the  region — too  little  known — where 
the  lessening  tribes  still  dwell,  there  may 
be  a  fuller  understanding  both  of  the  In- 
dians and  of  the  poetical  West. 

A  wealth  of  folk-lore  will  pass  with 
the  passing  of  the  Flathead  Reservation, 
therefore  it  is  well  to  stop  and  listen  be- 
fore the  light  is  quite  vanished  from  the 
hill-tops,  while  still  the  streams  sing  the 
songs  of  old  and  the  trees  murmur  re- 
gretfully of  things  lost  forever  and  a  time 
that  will  come  no  more.  We  of  the 
workaday  world  are  too  prone  to  believe 
that  our  own  country  is  lacking  in  myth 
and  tradition,  in  hero-tale  and  romance; 
yet  here  in  our  midst  is  a  legended  region 
where  every  landmark  is  a  symbol  in  the 
VII 


PREFACE 

great,  natural  record  book  of  a  folk 
whose  day  is  done  and  whose  song  is  but 
an  echo. 

It  would  not  be  fitting  to  close  these 
few  introductory  words  without  grateful 
acknowledgment  to  those  who  have  aided 
me  toward  the  accomplishment  of  my 
purpose.  Indeed,  every  page  brings  a 
pleasant  recollection  of  a  friendly  spirit 
and  a  helping  hand.  Mr.  Duncan  Mc- 
Donald, son  of  Angus,  and  Mr.  Henri 
Matt,  my  Indian  friends,  have  told  me 
by  word  of  mouth,  many  of  the  myths  and 
chronicles  set  forth  in  the  following 
chapters.  Mr.  Edward  Morgan,  the 
faithful  and  just  agent  at  the  Flathead 
Reservation,  has  given  me  priceless  in- 
formation which  I  could  never  have  ob- 
tained save  through  his  kindly  interest. 
He  secured  for  me  the  legend  of  the 
Flint,  the  last  tale  told  by  Chariot  and 
rendered  into  English  by  Michel  Rivals, 
the  blind  interpreter  who  has  served  in 
that  capacity  for  thirty  years.  Chief 
VIII 


PREFACE 

Chariot  died  after  this  book  was  finished 
and  he  lies  in  the  land  of  his  exile,  out  of 
the  home  of  his  fathers  where  he  had 
hoped  to  rest.  From  Mr.  Morgan  also 
I  received  the  account  of  Chariot's  meet- 
ing with  Joseph  at  the  LoLo  Pass,  the 
facts  of  which  were  given  him  by  the  lit- 
tle white  boy  since  grown  to  manhood, 
Mr.  David  Whaley,  who  rode  with  Char- 
lot  and  his  band  to  the  hostile  camp. 

The  late  Charles  Aubrey,  pioneer  and 
plainsman,  furnished  me  valuable  data 
concerning  the  buffalo. 

Madame  Leonie  De  Mers  and  her 
hospitable  relatives,  the  De  Mers  of  Ar- 
lee,  were  instrumental  in  winning  for  me 
the  confidence  of  the  Selish  people. 

Mrs.  L.  Mabel  Hight,  the  artist,  who 
has  caught  the  spirit  of  the  mountains 
with  her  brush,  has  added  to  this  book 
by  making  the  peaks  live  again  in  their 
colours. 

In    conclusion    I   would   express   my 
everlasting  gratitude  to  Mr.  Thomas  H. 
IX 


PREFACE 

Scott,  of  Lake  McDonald,  soldier, 
mountain-lover  and  woodsman,  who, 
with  unfailing  courage  and  patience,  has 
guided  me  safely  over  many  and  difficult 
trails. 

For  the  benefit  of  students  I  must  add 
that  the  authorities  I  have  followed  in 
my  historical  references  are:  Long's 
( James')  ^^Expedition  to  the  Rocky 
Mountains,  18IQ-20"  Maximilian's 
^^ Travels  in  North  America,'*  Father  De 
Smet's  ^'Oregon  Missions,"  Major  Ro- 
nan's  "History  of  the  Flathead  Indians," 
Bradbury's  "Travels,"  Father  L.  B.  Pal- 
ladino's  "Indian  and  White  in  the  North- 
west," and  the  Reports  of  the  Bureau  of 
Ethnology. 

Helen  Fitzgerald  Sanders. 

Butte,  Montana, 
April  5,  igio. 


CONTENTS 

I.  The  Gentle  Selish     ....        15 

II.  Enchanted  Waters     ....        77 

III.  Lake  Angus  McDonald      ...        89 

IV.  Some  Indian  Missions  of  the  Northwest       97 
V.  The  People  of  the  Leaves           .          •      155 

VI.  The  Passing  Buffalo            .          .          .169 

VII.  Lake  McDonald  and  Its  Trails  .          .229 

VIII.  Above  the  Clouds      .          .          .          .245 

IX.  The  Little  St.  Mary's         .         .         .271 

X.  The  Track  of  the  Avalanche      .          .     281 

XI.  Indian  Summer          ....      297 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS 

Lake  Angus  McDonald        .         .  Frontispiece 

Facing  Page 

Joe  La  Mousse  .....        50 

66 

90 

154 
234 
266 
290 


Abraham  Isaac  and  Michel  Kaiser 
Lake  McDonald  from  McDonald  Creek 
Francois      ...... 

Glacier  Camp      ..... 

Gem  Lake  ..... 

On  the  Trail  to  Mt.  Lincoln 


THE    GENTLE   SELISH 


TRAILS    THROUGH 
WESTERN     WOODS 

CHAPTER  I 

THE  GENTLE  SELISH 


WHEN  Lewis  and  Clark  took  their 
way  through  the  Western  wil- 
derness in  1805,  they  came  upon 
a  fair  valley,  watered  by  pleasant 
streams,  bounded  by  snowy  mountain 
crests,  and  starred,  in  the  Springtime,  by 
a  strangely  beautiful  flower  with  silvery- 
rose  fringed  petals  called  the  Bitter  Root, 
whence  the  valley  took  its  name.  In  the 
mild  enclosure  of  this  land  lived  a  gentle 
folk  differing  as  much  from  the  hostile 
people  around  them  as  the  place  of  their 
nativity  differed  from  the  stern,  moun- 
tainous country  of  long  winters  and  lofty 

15 


TRAILS  THROUGH  WESTERN  WOODS 

altitudes  surrounding  it.  These  early 
adventurers,  confusing  this  tribe  with  the 
nations  dwelling  about  the  mouth  of  the 
Columbia  River,  spoke  of  them  as  the 
Flatheads.  It  is  one  of  those  curious  his- 
torical anomalies  that  the  Chinooks  who 
flattened  the  heads  of  their  children, 
should  never  have  been  designated  as 
Flatheads,  while  the  Selish,  among  whom 
the  practice  was  unknown,  have  borne 
the  undeserved  title  until  their  own 
proper  and  euphonious  name  is  unused 
and  all  but  forgotten. 

The  Selish  proper,  living  in  the  Bitter 
Root  Valley,  were  one  branch  of  a  group 
composed  of  several  nations  collectively 
known  as  the  Selish  family.  These  kin- 
dred tribes  were  the  Selish,  or  Flatheads, 
the  Pend  d'Oreilles,  the  Coeur  d'Alenes, 
the  Colvilles,  the  Spokanes  and  the  Pis- 
quouse.  The  Nez  Perces  of  the  Clear- 
water were  also  counted  as  tribal  kin 
through  inter-marriage. 

Lewis  and  Clark  were  received  with 

i6 


THE  GENTLE  SELISH 

great  kindness  and  much  wonder  by  the 
Selish.  There  was  current  among  them 
a  story  of  a  hunting  party  that  came  back 
after  a  long  absence  East  of  the  Rocky 
Mountains,  bearing  strange  tidings  of 
a  pale-faced  race  whom  they  had  met, 
— probably  the  adventurous  Sieur  de  La 
Verendrye  and  his  cavaliers  who  set  out 
from  Montreal  to  find  a  highway  to  the 
Pacific  Sea.  But  it  was  only  a  memory 
with  a  few,  a  curious  legend  to  the  many, 
and  these  men  of  white  skin  and  blue  eyes 
came  to  them  as  a  revelation. 

The  traders  who  followed  in  the  foot- 
steps of  the  first  trail-blazers  found  the 
natives  at  their  pursuits  of  hunting,  rov- 
ing over  the  Bitter  Root  Valley  and  into 
the  contested  region  east  of  the  Main 
Range  of  the  Rocky  Mountains,  where 
both  they,  and  their  enemies,  the  Black- 
feet,  claimed  hereditary  right  to  hunt  the 
buffalo.  They  were  at  all  times  friendly 
to  the  white  men  who  came  among  them, 
and  these  visitors  described  them  as  sim- 

17 


TRAILS  THROUGH  WESTERN  WOODS 

pie,  Straight-forward  people,  the  women 
distinguished  for  their  virtue,  and  the 
men  for  their  bravery  in  the  battle  and 
the  chase.  They  were  cleanly  in  their 
habits  and  honorable  in  their  dealings 
with  each  other.  If  a  man  lost  his  horse, 
his  bow  or  other  valuable,  the  one  who 
found  it  delivered  it  to  the  Chief,  or 
Great  Father,  and  he  caused  it  to  be  hung 
in  a  place  where  it  might  be  seen  by  all. 
Then  when  the  owner  came  seeking  his 
goods,  the  Chief  restored  it  to  him.  They 
were  also  charitable.  If  a  man  were 
hungry  no  one  said  him  nay  and  he  was 
welcome  even  at  the  board  of  the  head 
men  to  share  the  best  of  their  fare.  This 
spirit  of  kindliness  they  extended  to  all 
save  their  foes  and  the  prisoners  taken  in 
war  whom  they  tortured  after  the  man- 
ner of  more  hostile  tribes.  In  appear- 
ance they  were  "comparatively  very  fair 
and  their  complexions  a  shade  lighter 
than  the  palest  new  copper  after  being 
freshly  rubbed."  They  were  well  formed, 
i8 


THE  GENTLE  SELISH 

lithe  and  tall,  a  characteristic  that  still 
prevails  with  the  pure  bloods,  as  does 
something  of  the  detail  of  their  ancient 
dress.  They  preserve  the  custom  of 
handing  dow^n  by  word  of  mouth,  from 
generation  to  generation,  their  myths, 
traditions  and  history.  Some  of  these 
chronicles  celebrate  events  which  are 
estimated  to  have  happened  two  hundred 
years  or  more  ago. 

Of  the  origin  of  the  Selish  nothing  is 
known  save  the  legend  of  their  coming 
out  of  the  mountains;  and  perhaps  we 
are  none  the  poorer,  for  no  bald  histori- 
cal record  of  dates  and  migrations  could 
be  as  suggestively  charming  as  this  story 
of  the  people,  themselves,  colored  by 
their  own  fancy  and  reflecting  their  inner 
life.  Indeed,  a  nation's  history  and  tradi- 
tion bear  much  the  same  relation  to  each 
other  as  the  conventional  public  existence 
of  a  man  compared  with  that  intangible 
part  of  him  which  we  call  imagination, 
but  which  is  in  reality  the  sum-total  of 

19 


TRAILS  THROUGH  WESTERN  WOODS 

his  mental  inheritance:  the  hidden  treas- 
ure of  his  spiritual  wealth.  Let  us  look 
then,  through  the  medium  of  the  Indian's 
poetic  imagery,  into  a  past  rose-hued  with 
the  sunrise  of  the  new  day. 

Coyote,  the  hero  of  this  legend,  figures 
in  many  of  the  myths  of  the  Selish;  but 
they  do  not  profess  to  know  if  he  were  a 
great  brave  bearing  that  name  or  if  he 
were  the  animal  itself,  living  in  the  leg- 
endary age  when  beasts  and  birds  spoke 
the  tongue  of  man.  Likely  he  was  a  dual 
personality  such  as  the  white  buffalo  of 
numerous  fables,  who  was  at  will  a  beau- 
tiful maiden  or  one  among  the  vast  herds 
of  the  plains.  Possibly  there  was,  indeed, 
such  a  mighty  warrior  in  ages  gone  by 
about  whose  glorified  memory  has  gath- 
ered the  half-chimerical  hero-tales  which 
are  the  first  step  toward  the  ancestor- 
worship  of  primitive  peoples.  In  all  of 
the  myths  given  here  in  which  his  name  is 
mentioned,  except  that  one  of  Coyote  and 
the  Flint,  we  shall  consider  him  as  an 
20 


THE  GENTLE  SELISH 

Ideal  embodying  the  Indians'  highest 
conception  of  valor  and  achievement. 

Long,  long  ago  the  Jocko  w2ls  inhab- 
ited by  a  man-eating  monster  who  lured 
the  tribes  from  the  hills  into  his  domain 
and  then  sucked  their  blood.  Coyote  de- 
termined to  deliver  the  people,  so  he 
challenged  the  monster  to  a  mortal  com- 
bat. The  monster  accepted  the  challenge, 
and  Coyote  v^^ent  into  the  mountains  and 
got  the  poison  spider  from  the  rocks  and 
bade  him  sting  his  enemy,  but  even  the 
venom  of  the  spider  could  not  penetrate 
the  monster's  hide. 

Coyote  took  counsel  of  the  Fox,  his 
friend,  and  prepared  himself  for  the 
fray.  He  got  a  stout  leather  thong  and 
bound  it  around  his  body,  then  tied  it 
fast  to  a  huge  pine  tree.  The  monster 
appeared  with  dripping  fangs  and  gap- 
ing jaws,  approached  Coyote,  who  re- 
treated farther  and  farther  away,  until 
the  thong  stretched  taut  and  the  pine 
curved  like  a  bow.  Suddenly,  the  tree, 
21 


TRAILS  THROUGH  WESTERN  WOODS 

Strained  to  its  utmost  limit,  sprang  back, 
felling  the  monster  with  a  mortal  stroke. 
Coyote  was  triumphant  and  the  Wood- 
pecker of  the  forest  cut  the  pine  and 
sharpened  its  trunk  to  a  point  which 
Coyote  drove  through  the  dead  monster's 
breast,  impaling  it  to  the  earth.  Thus, 
the  Jocko  was  rid  of  the  man-eater,  and 
the  Selish,  fearing  him  no  more,  came 
down  from  the  hills  into  the  valley  where 
they  lived  in  plenty  and  content. 

The  following  story  of  Coyote  and  the 
Flint  is  of  exceptional  interest  because  it 
is  from  the  lips  of  the  dying  Chariot — 
Chariot  the  unbending,  the  silent  Chief- 
tain. No  word  of  English  ever  profaned 
his  tongue,  so  this  myth,  told  in  the  im- 
pressive Selish  language,  was  translated 
word  for  word  by  Michel  Rivais,  the 
blind  interpreter  at  the  Flathead  Agency, 
who  has  served  faithfully  and  well  for  a 
period  of  thirty  years. 

"In  the  old  times  the  animals  had  tribes 
just  like  the  Indians.     The  Coyote  had 

22 


THE  GENTLE  SELISH 

his  tipi.  He  was  hungry  and  had  noth- 
ing to  eat.  He  had  bark  to  shoot  his  ar- 
row with  and  the  arrow  did  not  go 
through  the  deer.  He  was  that  way  a 
long  time  when  he  heard  there  was  Flint 
coming  on  the  road  that  gave  a  piece  of 
flint  to  the  Fox  and  he  could  shoot  a  deer 
and  kill  it,  but  the  Coyote  did  not  know 
that  and  used  the  bark.  They  did  not  give 
the  Coyote  anything.  They  only  gave 
some  to  the  Fox.  Next  day  the  Fox  put 
a  piece  of  meat  on  the  end  of  a  stick  and 
took  it  to  the  fire.  The  Fox  had  the  piece 
of  meat  cooking  there  and  the  Coyote  was 
looking  at  the  meat  and  when  it  was 
cooked  the  Coyote  jumped  and  got  the 
piece  of  meat  and  took  a  bite  and  in  it 
was  the  flint,  and  he  bit  the  flint  and  asked 
why  they  did  not  tell  him  how  to  kill  a 
deer  with  flint. 

"  Why  didn't  you  tell  me?'  the  Coyote 
asked  his  friend,  the  Fox.  'When  did  the 
Flint  go  by  here?' 

23 


TRAILS  THROUGH  WESTERN  WOODS 

"The  Fox  said  three  days  it  went  by 
here. 

"The  Coyote  took  his  blanket  and  his 
things  and  started  after  the  Flint  and  kept 
on  his  track  all  day  and  evening  and  said, 
'Here  is  where  the  Flint  camped,'  and  he 
stayed  there  all  night  himself,  and  next 
day  he  travelled  to  where  the  Flint 
camped,  and  he  said,  'Here  is  where  the 
Flint  camped  last  night,'  and  he  stayed 
there,  and  the  next  day  he  went  farther 
and  found  where  the  Flint  camped  and 
he  said,  'The  Flint  started  from  here  this 
morning.'  He  followed  the  track  next 
morning  and  went  not  very  far,  and  he 
saw  the  Flint  going  on  the  road,  and  he 
went  'way  out  that  way  and  went  ahead 
of  the  Flint  and  stayed  there  for  the 
Flint  to  come.  When  the  Flint  met  him 
there  the  Coyote  told  him: 

"  'Come  here.  Now,  I  want  to  have  a 
fight  with  you  today.' 

"And  the  Flint  said: 

"  'Come  on.    We  will  fight.' 

24 


THE  GENTLE  SELISH 

"The  Flint  went  to  him  and  the  Coyote 
took  the  thing  he  had  in  his  hand  and 
struck  him  three  or  four  times  and  the 
Flint  broke  all  to  pieces  and  the  Coyote 
had  his  blanket  there  and  put  the  pieces 
in  the  blanket  and  after  they  were 
through  fighting  and  he  had  the  pieces 
of  flint  in  his  blanket  he  packed  the  flint 
on  his  back  and  went  to  all  the  tribes  and 
gave  them  some  flint  and  said: 

"  'Here  is  some  flint  for  you  to  kill  deer 
and  things  with.' 

"And  he  went  to  another  tribe  and  did 
the  same  thing  and  to  other  tribes  and  did 
the  same  until  he  came  to  Flint  Creek 
and  then  from  that  time  they  used  the 
flint  to  put  in  their  arrows  and  kill  deer 
and  elk. 

"That  is  the  story  of  the  Flint." 

Coyote  was  the  chosen  one  to  whom 
the  Great  Spirit  revealed  the  disaster 
which  reduced  the  Selish  from  goodly 
multitudes  of  warriors  to  a  handful  of 

25 


TRAILS  THROUGH  WESTERN  WOODS 

wretched,  plague-stricken  invalids.  Old 
women  are  still  fond  of  relating  the  story 
which  they  received  from  their  mothers 
and  their  mothers'  mothers  even  to  the 
third  and  fourth  generation. 

Coyote  laid  down  to  rest  and  dreamed 
that  the  Voice  of  the  Great  Spirit 
sounded  in  his  ears,  saying  that  unless 
the  daughter  of  the  Chief  became  his 
bride  a  scourge  would  fall  upon  the  peo- 
ple. When  morning  broke  he  sought  out 
the  Chief  and  told  him  of  the  words  of 
the  Voice,  but  the  Chief,  who  was  a 
haughty  man,  would  not  heed  Coyote  and 
coldly  denied  him  the  hand  of  his  daugh- 
ter in  marriage. 

Coyote  returned  to  his  lodge  and  soon 
there  resounded  through  the  forests  the 
piercing  cry  of  one  in  distress.  Coyote 
rushed  forth  and  beheld  a  man  covered 
with  sores  across  the  river.  This  man  re- 
lated to  Coyote  how  he  was  the  last  sur- 
vivor of  a  war  party  that  had  come  upon 
a  village  once  occupied  by  the  enemy 
26 


THE  GENTLE  SELISH 

whom  they  sought,  but  as  they  ap- 
proached they  saw  no  smoke  arising  from 
the  tipis  and  no  sign  of  life.  They  came 
forward  very  cautiously,  but  all  was  si- 
lent and  deserted.  From  lodge  to  lodge 
they  passed,  and  finally  they  came  upon 
an  old  woman,  pitted  and  scabbed,  lying 
alone  and  dying.  With  her  last  breath 
she  told  them  of  a  scourge  which  had  fal- 
len upon  the  village,  consuming  brave 
and  child  alike,  until  she,  of  all  the 
lodges,  was  left  to  mourn  the  rest.  Then 
one  by  one  the  war  party  which  had  rid- 
den so  gallantly  to  conquest  and  glory, 
felt  an  awful  heat  as  of  fire  run  through 
their  veins.  Burning  and  distraught  they 
leaped  into  the  cold  waters  of  a  river  and 
died. 

Such  was  the  story  of  the  man  whom 
Coyote  met  in  the  woods.  He  alone  re- 
mained, disfigured,  diseased,  doomed.  So 
Coyote  brought  him  into  the  village  and 
quenched  his  thirst  that  he  might  pass 
more  easily  to  the  Happy  Hunting 
27 


TRAILS  THROUGH  WESTERN  WOODS 

Ground.  But  as  the  Great  Spirit  had  re- 
vealed to  Coyote  while  he  slept,  the 
scourge  fell  upon  the  people  and  laid 
them  low,  scarcely  enough  grief-stricken 
survivors  remaining  to  weep  for  their  lost 
dead. 

Besides  this  legendary  narrative  of  the 
visitation  of  smallpox  there  are  other  au- 
thenticated instances  of  the  plague 
wreaking  its  vengeance  upon  the  Selish 
and  depleting  their  villages  to  desolation. 
In  this  wise  the  tribe  was  thinned  again 
and  again  and  as  early  as  1813,  Mr.  Cox 
of  the  Northwest  Fur  Company,  told  in 
his  "Adventures"  that  once  the  Selish 
were  more  powerful  by  far  in  number 
than  in  the  day  of  his  coming  amongst 
them. 

There  was  also  another  cause  for  the 
nation's  decline  quite  as  destructive  as  the 
plague; — the  unequal  hostility  continu- 
ing generation  after  generation,  without 
capitulation  or  truce,  with  the  Blackfeet. 
28 


THE  GENTLE  SELISH 

The  country  of  the  Selish  abounded  in 
game  but  it  was  a  part  of  the  tribal  code 
of  honour  to  hunt  the  buffalo  in  the  fields 
where  their  ancestors  had  hunted.  All 
of  the  deadly  animosity  between  the  two 
peoples,  all  of  the  bloodshed  of  their  cruel 
wars,  was  for  no  other  purpose  than  to 
maintain  the  right  to  seek  the  beloved 
herds  in  the  favoured  fields  which  they 
believed  their  forefathers  had  won.  The 
jealousy  with  which  this  privilege  of  the 
chase  was  guarded  and  preserved  even  to 
the  death  explains  many  national  pecu- 
liarities, forms,  indeed,  the  keynote  to 
their  life  of  freedom  on  the  plains. 

It  is  possible  that  the  Selish  would  have 
been  annihilated  had  not  the  establish- 
ment of  new  trading-posts  enabled  them 
to  get  fire-arms  which  the  Blackfeet  had 
long  possessed.  This  means  of  defence 
gave  them  fresh  strength  and  thereafter 
the  odds  against  them  were  not  as  great. 

The  annals  of  the  tribe,  so  full  of  trag- 
edy and  joy,  of  fact  and  fancy,  of  folk- 
29 


TRAILS  THROUGH  WESTERN  WOODS 

lore  and  wood-lore,  contain  many  stories 
of  war  glory  reminiscent  of  the  days  of 
struggle.  Even  now  there  stands,  near 
Ravalli  in  the  Jocko,  a  rock  resembling 
a  man,  called  by  the  Indians  the  Stone 
Sentinel,    which    touchingly    attests    the  | 

fidelity  and  bravery  of  a  nameless  hero. 
The  story  is  that  one  of  the  runners  who 
had  gone  in  advance  of  a  war-party  after 
the  Indian  custom,  was  surprised  while 
keeping  watch  and  killed  by  the  Black- 
feet.  The  body  remained  erect  and  was 
turned  to  stone,  a  monument  of  devotion 
to  duty  so  strong  that  not  even  death  could 
break  his  everlasting  vigil. 

Notwithstanding  their  love  of  glory 
on  the  war-path  and  hunting-field,  they 
were  a  peaceable  people.  The  most  beau- 
tiful of  their  traditions  are  based  upon 
religious  themes  out  of  which  grew  a 
poetical  symbolism,  half  devotional,  half 
fantastic.  And  even  to-day,  in  spite  of 
their  profession  of  Christianity,  there 
lives  in  the  heart  of  the  Indian  the  old 

30 


THE  GENTLE  SELISH 

paganism,  not  unlike  that  of  the  Greeks, 
which  spiritualizes  every  object  of  the 
woods  and  waters. 

They  thought  that  in  the  Beginning 
the  good  Spirit  came  up  out  of  the  East 
and  the  Evil  Spirit  out  of  the  West,  and 
then  began  the  struggle,  typified  by  light 
and  darkness^  which  has  gone  on  ever 
since.  From  this  central  idea  they  have 
drawn  the  rainbow  Spirit-fancy  which 
arches  their  dream-sky  from  horizon  to 
horizon.  They  consider  some  trees  and 
rocks  sacred;  again  they  hold  a  lake  or 
stream  in  superstitious  dread  and  shun 
it  as  a  habitation  of  the  evil  one. 

Thus,  a  cave  in  the  neighbouring  hills 
where  rattlesnakes  sleep  in  Winter,  they 
avoided  in  the  past,  not  on  account  of  the 
common  snakes,  but  because  within  the 
damp,  dark  recesses  of  that  subterranean 
den,  the  King  of  Snakes,  a  huge,  horned 
reptile  dwelt,  appearing  occasionally  in 
all  his  venomous,  scaled  beauty,  striking 
terror  wherever  he  was  seen.     A  clear 

31 


TRAILS  THROUGH  WESTERN  WOODS 

spring  bubbled  near  the  cave  but  not  even 
the  cold  purity  of  the  water  could  tempt 
the  Indians  to  that  accursed  vicinity  until 
by  some  revelation  they  learned  that  the 
King  Snake  had  migrated  to  other  fast- 
nesses. He  is  still  seen,  so  they  say,  glid- 
ing stealthily  amongst  deserted  wastes,  his 
crest  reared  evily^  and  death  in  his  poison 
tail. 

In  contrast  to  this  cave  of  darkness 
is  the  spiritual  legend  of  the  Sacred  Pine. 
Upon  those  same  gentle  hills  of  the  Jocko 
it  grows,  lifting  its  lessening  cone  of  green 
toward  heaven.  It  has  been  there  past 
the  memory  of  the  great-grand-fathers  of 
the  present  generation  and  from  time  im- 
memorial it  has  been  held  sacred  by  the 
Selish  tribe.  High  upon  its  venerable 
branches  hangs  the  horn  of  a  Bighorn 
Sheep,  fixed  there  so  firmly  by  an  un- 
known hand,  before  even  the  tradition  of 
the  Selish  had  shaped  its  ghostly  form  out 
of  the  mists  of  the  past,  that  the  blizzard 
has  not  been  strong  enough  to  wrench  it 

32 


THE  GENTLE  SELISH 

from  its  place,  nor  the  frost  to  gnaw  it 
away.  No  one  knows  whence  the  ram*s 
horn  came  nor  what  it  signifies,  but  the 
tree  is  considered  holy  and  the  Indians 
believe  that  it  possesses  supernatural 
powers.  Hence,  offerings  are  made  to  it 
of  moccasins,  beads,  weasel  skins,  and 
such  little  treasures  of  wearing  apparel 
or  handiwork  as  they  most  esteem,  and 
at  certain  seasons,  beneath  the  cool,  sweet 
shadow  of  its  generous  boughs  the  de- 
voted worshippers,  going  back  through 
the  little  superficialities  of  recent  civili- 
zation to  the  magnetic  pole  of  their  own 
true  blood  and  beliefs,  assemble  to  dance 
with  religious  fervor  around  its  base 
upon  the  green.  The  missionary  fathers 
discourage  such  idolatrous  practices;  but 
the  poor  children  of  the  woods  play 
truant,  nevertheless,  and  wander  back 
through  the  cycle  of  the  centuries  to  do 
honour  to  the  old,  sweet  object  of  their 
devotion  in  the  primitive,  pagan  way. 
And     surely     the     Great     Spirit     who 

33 


TRAILS  THROUGH  WESTERN  WOODS 

watches  over  white  and  red  man  impar- 
tially, can  scarcely  be  jealous  of  this  trib- 
ute of  love  to  a  tree^ — the  instinctive,  race- 
old  festival  of  a  woodland  tribe. 

There  is  another  pine  near  Ravalli  re- 
vered because  it  recalls  the  days  of  the 
chase.  It  stands  upon  the  face  of  a  moun- 
tain somewhat  apart  from  its  brethren  of 
the  forest,  and  there  the  Bighorn  Sheep 
used  to  take  refuge  when  pursued.  If 
driven  to  bay^  the  leader,  followed  by  his 
band,  leaped  to  death  from  this  eminence. 
It  is  known  as  the  Pine  of  the  Bighorn 
Sheep. 

Thus,  it  will  be  seen  there  lives  among 
the  Selish  a  symbolism,  making  objects 
which  they  love  chapters  in  the  great  un- 
written book,  wherein  is  celebrated  the 
heroic  past.  He  who  has  the  key  to  that 
volume  of  tribe-lore,  may  learn  lessons  of 
valour  and  achievement,  of  patience  and 
sacrifice.  And  colouring  the  whole  story, 
making  beautiful  its  least  phase,  is  the 

34 


THE  GENTLE  SELISH 

sentiment  of  the  people,  even  as  the  haze 
is  the  poetry  of  the  hills. 


II 


As  heroic  or  disastrous  events  are  cele- 
brated in  verbal  chronicles  it  follows  that 
the  home  of  the  Selish  is  storied  ground. 
Before  the  pressure  of  civilization,  en- 
croaching in  ever-narrowing  circles  upon 
the  hunting-ground  of  the  Indians, 
cramping  and  crowding  them  within  a 
smaller  space,  driving  them  inch  by 
inch  to  the  confinement  which  is  their 
death,  the  Selish  wandered  at  will  over  a 
stretch  of  country  beautiful  alike  in  the 
reality  of  its  landscape  and  in  the  richness 
of  myth  and  legend  which  hang  over 
every  peak  and  transfigure  every  lake  and 
stream.  To  know  this  country  and  the 
people  it  has  sheltered  through  past  cen- 
turies one  must  first  glean  something  of 
that  ephemeral  story-charm  which  re- 
cords in  crag,  in  mist,  in  singing  stream 

35 


TRAILS  THROUGH  WESTERN  WOODS 

and  spreading  tree  the  dreams  made  al- 
most real  by  the  thousands  of  souls  who 
have  treasured  them,  and  given  them,  lip 
to  lip,  from  old  to  young,  since  the  forests 
were  first  green  upon  the  hills. 

The  land  of  the  Selish  extended  east- 
ward to  that  portion  of  the  Main  Range 
of  the  Rocky  Mountains  known  to  them 
as  Sin-yal-min,  or  the  "Mountains  of  the 
Surrounded,"  from  the  fact  that  once  a 
hunting  party  surrounded  and  killed  a 
herd  of  elk  by  a  stream  upon  those 
heights;  another  time  a  war-party  sur- 
rounded and  slew  a  company  of  Black- 
feet  within  the  woods  upon  the  mountain 
side.  Though  this  range  marked  the 
eastern  boundary  of  their  territory,  they 
hunted  bufifalo,  as  we  have  seen,  still  east 
of  its  mighty  peaks, — a  region  made 
bloody  by  battles  between  the  Selish  and 
the  Blackfeet  tribes.  Westward,  they 
wandered  over  the  fertile  valley  of  Sin- 
yal-min,  where  they,  in  common  with  the 
Pend    d'Oreilles,     Kootanais    and    Nez 

36 


THE  GENTLE  SELISH 

Perces  enjoyed  its  fruits  and  fields  of 
grain.  This  valley  is  bounded  to  the  north 
by  the  great  Flathead  Lake,  a  body  of 
water  vast  in  its  sweep,  winding  through 
narrow  channels  among  wooded  shores 
ever  unfolding  new  and  unexposed  vistas 
as  one  traverses  it.  On  a  calm  summer 
day,  when  the  sun's  rays  are  softened  by 
gossamer  veils  of  haze,  the  water,  the 
mountain-peaks  and  sky  are  faintly  traced 
in  shades  of  grey  and  faded  rose  as  in 
mother-of-pearl.  And  on  such  days  as 
this,  at  rare  intervals^  a  strange  phenome- 
non occurs, — the  reflection  of  a  reflection. 
Looking  over  the  rail  of  a  steamer  within 
the  semi-circular  curve  of  the  swell  at  its 
stern,  one  may  see,  first  the  reflection  of 
the  shore  line,  the  mountains  and  trees  ap- 
pearing upside  down,  then  a  second  shore 
line  perfectly  wrought  in  the  mirroring 
waters  right  side  up,  pine-crest  touching 
pine-crest,  peak  poised  against  peak.  This 
lake  was  the  Selish's  conception  of  the 
greatest  of  waters,  for  their  wandering 

37 


286109 


TRAILS  THROUGH  WESTERN  WOODS 

never  took  them  to  the  Atlantic  or  Pacific 
Seas,  and  in  such  small  craft  as  they  used 
to  travel  over  the  forty  miles  of  water 
among  serpentining  shores,  the  distance 
must  have  seemed  immense.  Many  is- 
lands rise  from  the  lake,  the  largest  of 
them.  Wild  Horse  Island,  is  timbered 
and  mountainous,  and  so  big  as  to  appear 
like  an  arm  of  the  main  land.  This  Wild 
Horse  Island,  where  in  olden  days  bands 
of  wild  horses  were  found,  possesses  a  pe- 
culiar interest.  Upon  its  steep  cliffs  are 
hieroglyphics  traced  in  pigments  un- 
known to-day,  telling  the  forgotten  story 
of  a  lost  race.  The  same  strange  figures 
appear  upon  the  sheer  escarpments  of  the 
mainland  shore.  These  rock-walls  are 
moss-grown  and  colored  by  the  lichen, 
chrome  yellow,  burnt  orange,  russet- 
brown  and  varying  shades  of  bronze- 
green  like  Autumn  leaves,  and  upon  them 
broods  a  shadow  as  darkly  impenetrable 
as  the  mystery  which  they  hold.  Still,  it 
is  easy  to  distinguish  upon  the  heroic  tab- 

38 


THE  GENTLE  SELISH 

lets  of  Stone,  crude  figures  of  horses  and 
some  incomprehensible  marks.  These 
writings  have  been  variously  interpreted 
or  guessed  at.  Some  declare  them  to  be 
ancient  w^ar  signals  of  the  Selish,  others 
suggest  that  they  were  records  of  hunting 
parties  left  behind  for  the  guidance  and 
information  of  the  tribe;  but  they,  them- 
selves, deny  all  knowledge  of  them,  say- 
ing that  to  them  as  to  us,  the  pictured 
rocks  are  a  wonder  and  a  riddle,  the  silent 
evidence  of  foot-falls  so  remote  that  not 
even  an  echo  has  come  down  to  us  through 
the  centuries. 

Such  are  the  valley  of  Sin-yal-min  and 
the  Lake  of  the  Flathead  where  the 
Selish  hunted.  But  their  real  home,  the 
seat  of  their  fathers,  was  the  Bitter  Root 
Valley,  where  one  branch  of  the  tribe, 
headed  by  Chariot,  the  son  of  Victor, 
lived  until  the  recent  exodus.  Therefore, 
the  Bitter  Root  Valley  was  particularly 
dear  to  the  hearts  of  these  Indians.  It 
was  there  the  bond  between  the  kindred 

39 


TRAILS  THROUGH  WESTERN  WOODS 

tribes,  the  Nez  Perces  and  the  Selish,  was 
broken;  there  the  pioneer  Fathers  came 
to  build  the  first  Mission  and  plant  the 
first  Cross  among  these  docile  children 
of  the  wood.  It  was  there  they  clung  to- 
gether like  frightened  sheep  until  they 
were  driven  forth  to  seek  new  homes  in 
the  Valley  of  the  Jocko,  which  was  to  be 
merely  a  station  in  their  enforced  retreat. 
Eastward  and  southward  from  the  Bit- 
ter Root,  the  Jocko  and  the  range  of 
Sin-yal-min  in  the  contested  country,  is 
a  canon  called  the  Hell  Gate,  because 
within  its  narrow  limits,  the  Blackfeet 
wreaked  vengeance  upon  their  less  war- 
like foes.  Flowing  through  the  canon  is 
a  river,  In-mts-sou-let-ka,  corrupted  into 
Missoula,  which  bears  one  of  the  most 
beautiful  of  the  Selish  legends. 

Coyote  was  taking  his  way  through  a 

pass  in  the  mountains  during  the  ancient 

days,  when  there  came  to  him,  out  of  the 

closed  lip  of  silence,  the  echo  of  a  sound. 

40 


THE  GENTLE  SELISH 

He  Stopped  to  listen,  in  doubt  if  it  were 
the  singing  of  waters  or  human  voices 
that  he  heard^  and  as  he  listened  the  echo 
grew  into  a  reality  and  the  strains  of  won- 
drous, weirdly  sweet  music  greeted  his 
ear.  He  followed  the  illusive  melody, 
attracted  as  by  magic,  and  at  last  he  saw 
upon  the  flower-sown  green  a  circle  of 
young  women,  dancing  around  and 
around,  hand  clasped  in  hand,  forming  a 
chain  and  singing  as  they  danced.  They 
beckoned  to  Coyote  and  called  unto  him, 
saying: 

"Thou  art  beautiful,  O  Warrior!  and 
strong  as  is  the  sun.  Come  dance  with  us 
and  we  will  sing  to  thee." 

Coyote,  like  one  who  walks  in  his  sleep, 
obeyed  them  and  joined  the  enchanted 
circle.  Then  he  perceived  that  as  they 
danced  and  sang  they  drew  him  closer 
and  closer  to  a  great  river  that  lashed  it- 
self into  a  blind,  white  fury  of  foam  upon 
the  rocks.  Coyote  became  afraid  like  a 
woman.    He  noted  with  dread  the  water- 

41 


TRAILS  THROUGH  WESTERN  WOODS 

weed  in  the  maidens'  hair  and  the  evil 
beauty  of  their  eyes.  He  strove  to  break 
away  but  he  was  powerless  to  resist  them 
and  he  felt  himself  drawn  nearer  and 
nearer  the  roaring  torrent,  until  at  last 
the  waters  closed  over  him  in  whirlpools 
and  he  knew  no  more. 

The  Fox,  who  was  wise  and  crafty, 
passed  along  the  shore  and  there  he 
found,  among  the  water-weeds  and 
grasses  the  lifeless  body  of  Coyote  which 
had  been  cast  up  by  the  waters,  even  as 
they  had  engulfed  him.  The  Fox  was 
grieved  for  he  loved  Coyote,  so  he  bent 
over  the  corpse  and  brought  it  back  to 
life.  Coyote  opened  his  eyes  and  saw  his 
friend,  but  the  chill  of  the  water  was  in 
his  blood  and  he  was  numb.  Then  above 
the  roar  of  the  river,  echoed  the  magical 
measure  of  a  weird-sweet  song  and 
through  a  green  glade  came  the  dancers 
who  had  lured  Coyote  to  his  death.  He 
rose    at    the    sound    of    the    bewitching 

42 


THE  GENTLE  SELISH 

melody  and  strained  forward  to  listen. 

"It  was  they  who  led  me  to  the  river," 
he  cried. 

"Aye,  truly.  They  are  the  water  Sirens 
and  thou  must  destroy  them,"  replied  the 
Fox. 

At  those  words  Coyote's  heart  became 
inflamed  with  ire;  he  grew  strong  with 
purpose  and  crept  forward,  noiseless  as 
a  snake,  unobserved  by  the  water- 
maidens. 

They  were  dancing  like  a  flock  of 
white  butterflies  upon  a  stretch  of  grass 
yellowed  and  seared  by  the  heat  of  the 
sun.  Swiftly  and  silently  Coyote  set  fire 
to  the  grass,  imprisoning  them  in  a  ring 
of  flame.  They  saw  the  wall  of  fire  leap 
up  around  them  and  their  singing  was 
changed  to  cries.  They  turned  hither  and 
thither  and  sought  to  fly  to  the  water  but 
the  way  was  barred  by  the  hot  red-gold 
embrace  of  the  fire. 

When  the  flames  had  passed,  Coyote 
went  to  the  spot  where  the  Sirens  had 

43 


TRAILS  THROUGH  WESTERN  WOODS 

danced,  and  there  upon  the  blackened 
ground  he  found  a  heap  of  great,  white 
shells.  He  took  these,  the  remains  of  the 
water-maidens,  and  cast  them  into  the 
river,  saying  as  he  did  so : 

"I  call  thee  In-mis-sou-let-ka  and  thou 
shalt  forever  bear  that  name!" 

Thus  it  was  that  the  river  flowing 
through  the  Hell  Gate  came  by  the  title 
of  In-mis-sou-let-ka,  which  men  render 
into  English  by  the  inadequate  words  of 
^''The  River  of  Awe." 

Through  the  length  and  breadth  of  the 
country  are  story-bearing  land-marks. 
There  is  a  rock  in  the  Jocko,  small  of  size 
but  of  weight  so  mighty  that  no  Indian, 
however  strong,  can  move  it;  there  is  a 
mountain  which  roars  and  growls  like 
an  angry  monster;  there  is  a  clifif  where  a 
brave  of  the  legendary  age  of  heroes 
battled  hand  to  hand  with  a  grizzly  bear, 
and  a  thousand  other  spots,  each  hal- 
lowed by  a  memory.     So,  through  peak 

44 


II 


THE  GENTLE  SELISH 

and  lowland^  rivers  and  forests  one  can 
find  the  faery-spell  of  romance,  lending 
the  commonest  stone  individuality  and  in- 
terest. And  the  most  prosaic  pilgrim 
wandering  along  haunted  streams,  cool- 
ing in  the  shadow  of  storied  woods  and 
upon  the  shores  of  enchanted  lakes,  must 
feel  the  spell  of  poesy  upon  him;  must 
look  with  altered  vision  upon  the  whis- 
pering trees,  listen  with  quickened  hear- 
ing to  the  articulate  murmur  of  the 
rivers,  knowing  for  a  time  at  least,  the 
subtle  fellowship  with  the  woodland 
which  is  in  the  heart  of  the  Indian. 

Such  is  the  legended  land  of  the  Selish, 
a  land  fit  for  gentle,  poetic  folk  to  dwell 
in,  a  land  worthy  for  brave  and  devoted 
men  to  lay  down  their  lives  to  save. 

Ill 

Within  the  Bitter  Root  Valley  dwelt 
Chariot,  Slem-Hak-Kah,  "Little  Claw 
of   a   Grizzly   Bear,"   son   of   the   great 

45 


TRAILS  THROUGH  WESTERN  WOODS 

chief  Victor,  "The  Lodge  Pole,"  and 
therefore  by  hereditary  right  Head 
Chief  of  the  Selish  tribe.  That  val- 
ley is  perhaps  the  most  favoured  land 
of  the  region.  The  snow  melts  earlier 
within  its  mountain-bound  heart,  the 
blizzard  drives  less  fiercely  over  its  slopes 
and  the  Spring  comes  there  sooner,  sprink- 
ling the  grass  with  the  rose  stars  of  the 
Bitter  Root.  Under  the  guidance  of  the 
missionary  fathers  the  Indians  learned  to 
till  the  soil  and  the  bounty  of  their  toil 
was  sufficient,  for  the  rich  earth  yielded 
fine  crops  of  grain  and  fruit.  The 
Indians  who  sowed  and  plowed  their 
small  garden-spots,  and  the  kindly  fa- 
thers who  watched  over  their  prosperity, 
little  dreamed  that  in  the  free  gift  of  the 
earth  and  the  mild  beauty  of  the  land  lay 
the  cause  which  should  wreak  the  red 
man's  ruin.  This  land  was  dear  to  the 
hearts  of  the  people.  Victor,  their  brave 
guardian,  had  saved  it  for  them  at  the 
treaty  of  the  Hell  Gate  when  they  were 

46 


THE  GENTLE  SELISH 

called  upon  to  give  up  part  of  their  terri- 
tory to  the  increasing  demands  of  the 
whites.  Those  of  the  dominant  race  kept 
coming  into  the  Bitter  Root  and  they 
were  welcomed  by  the  Indians.  Thus, 
bit  by  bit  the  valley  was  taken  up,  its 
fame  spread  and  it  became  a  region  so  de- 
sirable that  the  government  determined 
to  move  the  Selish  tribe  out  of  the  land 
of  their  fathers. 

Chariot  was  a  courageous  and  honest 
man,  a  leader  worthy  of  his  trust.  It  was 
he  who  met  the  Nez  Perces  as  they  de- 
scended into  the  Bitter  Root,  headed  by 
Chief  Joseph,  hot  with  the  lust  for  the 
white  man's  scalp.  There  are  few  more 
dramatic  incidents  in  western  history  than 
Chariot's  visit  to  Chief  Joseph  on  the  Lo- 
Lo  trail  and  the  ultimatum  which  he  de- 
livered to  the  leader  of  the  Nez  Perce 
hosts. 

He  rode  forth  accompanied  by  Joe  La 
Mousse  and  a  small  war-party,  carrying 
with  him  a  little  white  boy.     About  his 

47 


TRAILS  THROUGH  WESTERN  WOODS 

arm  he  had  tied  a  snowy  handkerchief  in 
token  of  the  peaceful  character  of  his  er- 
rand. When  the  two  Chiefs,  Chariot  and 
Joseph  faced  each  other,  Chariot  spoke 
these  wordSj  slowly,  defiantly  as  one  who 
has  made  a  great  decision : 

"Joseph,  I  have  something  to  say  to 
you.    It  will  be  in  a  few  words. 

"You  know  I  am  not  afraid  of  you. 

"You  know  I  can  whip  you. 

"If  you  are  going  through  the  valley 
you  must  not  hurt  any  of  the  whites.  If 
you  do  you  will  have  me  and  my  people 
to  fight. 

"You  may  camp  at  my  place  to-night 
but  to-morrow  you  must  pass  on." 

And  it  was  as  Chariot  decreed.  Joseph 
the  brave,  intractable  warrior  who  did 
battle  with  the  army  of  the  United  States 
and  kept  the  cleverest  of  our  generals 
guessing  at  his  strategies,  bent  to  the  iron 
will  of  Chariot.  The  Nez  Perces  passed 
peacefully  through  the  valley  and  never 
a  soul  was  harmed. 

48 


( 


THE  GENTLE  SELISH 

In  the  long,  cruel  struggle  that  fol- 
lowed, when  Chief  Joseph  and  his  braves 
struck  terror  to  the  settlers,  leaving  death 
and  ruin  in  their  path.  Chariot  remained 
staunch  and  true.  Indeed,  the  boast  of 
the  Selish  is  that  they^  as  a  nation,  were 
never  guilty  of  taking  a  white  man's  life. 

Meantime,  while  they  lived  in  peace 
and  plenty,  the  fates  had  sealed  their 
doom.  There  is  no  use  reiterating  the 
long,  painful  story  of  the  treaty  between 
the  Selish  and  the  government,  ceding  to 
the  latter  the  land  where  the  tribal  ances- 
tors lived  and  died.  Chariot  declared  he 
did  not  sign  away  the  birth-right  of  his 
people  and  he  was  an  honourable  man. 
He  and  his  friends  went  farther  and  said 
that  his  mark  was  forged.  On  the  other 
hand  some  of  those  who  were  witnesses 
for  the  United  States  maintain  that  the 
name  Chariot  was  written  like  that  of  Ar- 
lee  and  others,  with  a  blank  space  left  for 
the  mark,  or  signature  of  each  Chief. 
They  further  state  that  Chariot  never  af- 

49 


TRAILS  THROUGH  WESTERN  WOODS 

fixed  his  mark  to  the  document  nor  was  it 
forged  as  he  asserted  to  the  end.  This 
is  at  best  mere  evasion.  One  of  two 
things  happened:  a  fraudulent  signature 
was  put  upon  the  face  of  the  treaty  to  de- 
ceive the  government,  or  Chariot,  as 
Head  Chief,  was  overridden  and  ignored. 
Whatever  the  means  employed  the  out- 
come was  the  same.  It  was  an  unhappy 
day  for  the  Indians.  They  had  no  re- 
course but  to  submit,  so  most  of  them 
headed  by  Arlee,  the  War  Chief,  struck 
their  tipis,  abandoned  the  toil-won  fields 
where  they  had  laboured  so  long  and  so 
patiently,  left  the  shadow  of  the  Cross 
where  they  were  baptized,  and  went  forth 
into  the  Jocko  to  begin  again  the  struggle 
which  should  never  be  more  than  a  begin- 
ning. 

But  Chariot  the  royal-blooded,  son  of 
a  long  line  of  fighting  chiefs,  was  not  to 
be  moved  by  the  master-hand  like  a  pawn 
in  a  game  of  chess.  He  haughtily  refused 
to  leave  the  Bitter  Root  Valley,  telling  his 

50 


4 


J 


OE  La  Mousse 


THE  GENTLE  SELISH 

people  that  those  of  them  who  wished  to 
go  should  follow  Arlee,  but  he  with  a 
few  of  the  faithful,  would  lie  down  to  his 
repose  in  the  land  of  his  fathers  beneath 
peaks  that  mingle  with  the  sky.  With  im- 
passive dignity  he  and  a  party  of  his  loyal 
band  went  to  Washington  at  the  bidding 
of  the  Great  Father  to  listen  to  the  justice 
of  the  white  man's  claim.  Chariot 
proudly  declined  to  accept  pension  and 
authority  bought  at  the  price  of  his  exile. 
He  wished  only  the  "poor  privilege"  of 
dwelling  in  the  valley  where  his  fathers 
had  dwelt;  of  resting  at  last,  where  they 
had  lain  so  long.  He  wanted  neither 
money  nor  land, — simply  permission  to 
live  in  the  home  of  his  childhood,  his 
manhood  and  old  age.  He  added  that  he 
would  never  be  taken  alive  to  the  Jocko 
Reservation.  The  Powers  saw  no  merit 
in  the  sentiment  of  the  old  Chief.  He  had 
dared  to  oppose  their  will  and  they  de- 
termined to  break  his  spirit.  He  might 
remain  in  the  Bitter  Root  the  All-Wise 

51 


TRAILS  THROUGH  WESTERN  WOODS 

decreed,  but  in  remaining  he  relinquished 
every  right.  More  crushing  to  him  than 
poverty  and  exile  was  the  final  blow  to 
his  pride.  In  a  sense  he  was  King  of  his 
tribe.  The  title  of  Great  Chief  descended 
from  father  to  son,  even  as  the  crowns  of 
empires  are  handed  down.  The  War 
Chiefs,  on  the  other  hand,  were  elected 
to  command  the  warriors  for  a  year  and 
at  the  end  of  their  service  they  became 
simple  braves  again.  The  government, 
ignoring  the  canons  of  the  Selish,  put 
Chariot  aside,  and  Arlee,  the  Red  Night, 
last  of  the  War  Chiefs,  took  precedence 
over  him  and  became  Head  Chief  of  his 
nation.  Chariot  was  stripped  of  his  title, 
his  honourSj  his  privileges  of  land  grant 
and  pension;  in  other  words,  he  was  re- 
duced from  Great  Chief  to  pauper. 

Thus  Charlotj  who  with  his  braves  had 
defied  his  kinsfolk,  the  Nez  Perces,  to 
protect  the  weak  colony  of  settlers  in  their 
Bitter  Root  home  was  driven  forth  by 
these    same   strangers   within    his    gates, 

52 


THE  GENTLE  SELISH 

and  he,  the  bravest  and  best  of  his  kind, 
shorn  of  the  dignities  his  forebears  and  he, 
himself,  had  won; — robbed,  cast  out,  was 
held  up  to  contumely  as  an  unruly  savage 
and  spurned  by  the  people  his  mercy  had 
spared. 

From  the  Bitter  Root,  the  poor  wan- 
derers took  their  way  into  the  Jocko,  a 
region  also  fair,  where  some  of  their 
tribe  already  dwelt,  and  made  for  them- 
selves new  homes.  They  accepted  the 
change  uncomplainingly  and  set  to  work 
to  sow  and  reap  in  this  adopted  land. 

Chariot  and  his  band  of  nearly  two 
hundred  lingered  in  the  Bitter  Root  un- 
til 1 89 1,  when  driven  by  hunger  and  suf- 
fering they  followed  their  tribesmen  into 
the  Jocko.  He  had  said  he  would  never 
be  taken  alive  to  the  new  reservation,  nor 
was  he.  Clad  in  his  war  dress,  mounted 
on  his  best  horse,  surrounded  by  his  young 
men  infullwar  regalia,  he  rode  into  exile, 
proud,  unbending  as  a  triumphant  Chief 
entering  dominions  won  by  conquest.    No 

53 


TRAILS  THROUGH  WESTERN  WOODS 

expression  of  pain  crossed  his  bronze- 
stern  face;  no  hint  of  humility  or  subjec- 
tion softened  the  majesty  of  his  mien.  He 
and  his  braves  were  met  by  the  Selish 
who  had  gone  before^  with  great  ostenta- 
tion and  ceremony.  Chariot  never  forgot 
nor  forgave.  He  had  been  cast  out,  be- 
trayed, but  not  conquered. 

The  Selish  have  learned  to  love  the 
soft,  yellow-green  of  the  Jocko  hills,  the 
free  sweep  of  its  prairies,  where  sun  flow- 
ers flow  in  a  sea  of  gold  beneath  the  rush- 
ing tide  of  the  summer  wind,  and  the 
prettily  boisterous  little  Jocko  River 
laughs  and  plays  over  its  rocky  bed  be- 
tween a  veritable  jungle  of  trees  and  vines 
and  flowers.  In  these  woods  bordering 
the  stream,  the  most  luscious  wild  goose- 
berries, strawberries  and  bright  scarlet 
brew  berries  grow — this  last,  dear  to  the 
Indian,  is  picked  by  the  squaws  and  made 
into  a  sparkling  draught.  There  the  trees 
are  hung  with  dense  tapestries  of  blossom- 
ing vines,  thick  moss  deadens  the  foot- 

54 


THE  GENTLE  SELISH 

Step  and  birds  call  shrilly  from  the  twi- 
light of  the  trees.  But  the  Jocko  and  Sin- 
yal-min  are  beautiful  and  fertile,  and 
wherever  there  is  beauty  and  fertility 
there  comes  the  Master  saying: 

''This  is  mine  by  right  of  might!  Go 
forth  again  O  Indian!  There  are  lean 
hills  and  deserts  left  for  thee!'' 

And  the  Indian,  grown  used  to  such 
things,  folds  his  tipi  and  takes  his  way 
into  the  charity  of  the  lessening  wilder- 
ness. 

Not  long  ago  a  strange  thing  came 
to  pass.  One  evening  the  sun  set  in  a  pas- 
sion of  red  and  gold.  The  tide  of  light 
pulsed  through  the  skies,  the  air  throbbed 
and  shimmered  with  it,  and  every  lake  and 
pool  reflected  its  ruddy  splendour  until 
they  seemed  to  be  filled  with  blood.  The 
Indians  gazed  at  the  spectacle  in  silent 
awe.  Groups  of  them  on  horseback,  dark 
figures  silhouetted  against  the  bright  sky, 
stared  curiously  at  the  awful  glory  of  the 
heavens  and  earth,  whispered  in  low  tones 

55 


TRAILS  THROUGH  WESTERN  WOODS 

together  and  were  afraid.  Was  the  Great 
Spirit  revealing  something  to  his  chil- 
dren? Some  there  were  who  thought 
that  the  crimson  banners  in  the  West  fore- 
told a  disaster  and  verily  it  was  true.  The 
end  was  near.  The  sun  was  setting  for- 
ever upon  their  freedom.  Once  more  the 
children  of  the  old  time  would  be  driven 
to  another  camping  ground  where  they 
might  halt  for  a  little  space  and  rest  their 
weary  heads  before  they  take  up  the 
march  upon  their  endless  retreat. 


IV 


During  the  Summer  at  the  time  when 
the  sun  reached  his  greatest  strength, 
according  to  the  ancient  custom,  the 
Selish  gathered  together  to  dance.  In 
this  celebration  is  embodied  the  spirit 
of  the  people,  their  pride,  their  hates 
and  loves.  But  this  dance  had  a  peculiar 
significance.  It  was,  perhaps,  the  last 
that  the  tribe  will  celebrate.     Another 

56 


I 


THE  GENTLE  SELISH 

year  the  white  man  will  occupy  the 
land,  and  the  free,  roving  life  and  its 
habits  will  be  gone.  It  was  a  scene  never 
to  be  forgotten.  Overhead  a  sky  deeply 
azure  at  its  zenith  which  mellowed 
toward  the  West  into  a  tide  of  ruddy  gold 
flowing  between  the  blue  heavens  and  the 
green  earth ;  far,  far  away,  dim,  amethyst 
mountains  dreaming  in  the  haze;  and 
through  that  rose-gold  flood  of  light, 
sharply  outlined  against  the  intense  blue 
above  and  the  tender  green  below,  silent 
figures  on  horseback,  gay  with  blankets, 
beads  and  buckskins,  rode  out  of  the  filmy 
distance  into  the  splendour  of  the  setting 
sun,  and  noiselessly  took  their  places 
around  the  musicians  on  the  grass. 

There  were  among  them  the  most  dis- 
tinguished men  of  the  tribe.  Joe  La 
Mousse,  once  a  warrior  of  fame,  grown 
to  an  honored  old  age,  watched  the  young- 
er generation  with  the  simple  dignity 
which  becomes  one  of  his  years  and  rank. 
He  possessed  the  richest  war  dress  of  all, 

SI 


TRAILS  THROUGH  WESTERN  WOODS 

Strung  with  elks'  teeth  and  resplendent 
with  the  feathers  of  the  war-eagle.  It 
was  he,  who  with  Chariot,  met  the  Nez 
Perces  and  repudiated  their  bloody  cam- 
paign ;  he,  whose  valiant  ancestor,  Ignace 
La  Mousse,  the  Iroquois,  helped  to  make 
glorious  the  name  of  his  adopted  people. 
Frangois  and  Kai-Kai-She,  the  judge, 
both  honoured  patriarchs,  and  Chief  An- 
toine  Moise,  Callup-Squal-She,  "Crane 
with  a  ring  around  his  neck,"  who  fol- 
lowed Chariot  to  Washington  on  his  mis- 
sion of  protest,  moved  and  mingled  in  the 
bright  patchwork  of  groups  upon  the 
green.  There  was  none  more  imbued 
with  the  spirit  of  festivity  than  old  Fran- 
gois with  white  hair  falling  to  his  bowed 
shoulders.  These  and  many  more  there 
were  whose  prime  had  known  happier 
days.  Chief  Moise's  wife,  a  handsome 
squaw,  rode  in  with  her  lord,  and  con- 
spicuous among  the  women  was  a  slim 
wisp  of  a  girl  with  an  oval  face,  buckskin- 
colored   complexion,    and   great,    dusky, 

S8 


THE  GENTLE  SELISH 

twilight  eyes.  A  pale  gray-green  blanket 
was  wrapped  about  her  head  and  body, 
hanging  to  her  moccasined  feet.  She  was 
the  wife  of  Michel  Kaiser,  the  young 
leader  of  the  braves.  But  towering  above 
the  rest  of  the  assembly,  regal  to  the  point 
of  austerity,  was  a  man  aged  but  still 
erect,  as  though  his  strength  of  pride 
would  never  let  his  shoulders  stoop  be- 
neath the  conquering  years.  He  wore  his 
blanket  folded  closely  around  him  and 
fanned  himself  with  an  eagle's  wing,  the 
emblem  of  the  warrior.  One  eye  was  hid- 
den beneath  a  white  film  which  had  shut 
out  its  sight  forever,  but  the  other,  coal- 
black  and  piercing,  met  the  stranger  gaze 
for  gaze,  never  flinching,  never  turning 
aside.  It  was  Chariot.  Though  an  exile, 
his  head  was  still  unbent,  his  spirit  un- 
broken. 

Sometimes  we  see  in  the  aged,  the 
placid  melancholy  which  comes  with  the 
foreknowledge  of  death,  so  in  the  serene- 
ly sad  faces  of  the  aged  Indians,  we  rec- 

59 


TRAILS  THROUGH  WESTERN  WOODS 

ognize  that  greater  melancholy  which  is 
born  of  the  foreshadowing  of  racial 
death.  They  cherish,  too,  a  more  personal 
grief  in  that  they  shall  live  to  see  the  pass- 
ing of  the  old  life.  Patiently  they  sub- 
mitted to  the  expulsion  from  the  Bitter 
Root,  but  now  in  the  darkness  of  gather- 
ing years  once  more  they  must  strike  their 
tipis  to  make  room  for  the  invading 
hosts.  The  setting  sun  streamed  through 
the  leaves  and  touched  the  venerable 
faces  with  false  youth.  Wagon  and  pony 
discharged  their  human  loads  who  sat 
passively,  listening  to  the  admonition  of 
the  tom-tom  and  the  chant: 
"Come,  O!  ye  people!  Come  and  dance!" 
After  this  preliminary  measure  had 
lasted  hours,  not  an  Indian  professed  to 
know  whether  the  people  would  be 
moved  to  dance  or  not.  A  race  character- 
istic is  that  impulse  must  quicken  them 
to  action.  It  was  strange  how  the  tidings 
had  spread.  The  tipis  and  lodges  are 
scattered  over  many  miles,  but  the  In- 
60 


THE  GENTLE  SELISH 

dians  kept  coming  as  though  called  up  by 
magic  from  their  hiding  places  in  the 
hills. 

Beneath  a  clump  of  cottonwood  trees 
around  the  tom-tom,  a  drum  made  of  deer 
hide  stretched  over  a  hollowed  section  of 
green  tree,  sat  the  four  musicians  beating 
the  time  of  the  chant  with  sticks  bound  in 
strips  of  cloth.  Of  these  players  one  was 
blind,  another  aged,  and  the  remaining 
two,  in  holiday  attire,  with  painted  lips 
and  cheeks,  were  braves.  One  of  these, 
seated  a  trifle  higher  than  his  companions, 
leaned  indolently  over  the  tom-tom  ply- 
ing his  sticks  with  careless  grace.  He  pos- 
sessed a  peculiar  magnetism  which 
marked  him  a  leader.  Occasionally  his 
whole  body  thrilled  with  sudden  anima- 
tion, his  voice  rose  into  a  strident  cry, 
then  he  relapsed  into  the  languid  posture 
and  the  bee-like  drone.  Of  all  that  gath- 
ering he  was  the  one  perfect,  full-blood 
specimen  of  a  brave  in  the  height  of  his 
prime.  The  dandy,  Victor  Vanderberg, 
6i 


TRAILS  THROUGH  WESTERN  WOODS 

was  handsomer  perhaps,  and  little  Jerome 
had  the  beauty  of  a  head  of  Raphael,  but 
this  Michel  Kaiser  was  a  type  apart.  His 
face  and  slim,  nimble  hands  were  the 
colour  of  bronze.  His  nose  curved  sharp- 
ly as  a  hawk's  beak,  his  mouth  was  com- 
pressed in  a  hard,  cold  line  over  his  white 
teeth,  his  cheek  bones  were  high  and 
prominent,  his  brows  straight,  sable 
strokes  above  small,  bright-black  eyes 
that  gleamed  keen  as  arrow  darts.  His 
hair  was  made  into  two  thick  braids 
wrapped  around  with  brown  fur,  his 
arms  were  decorated  with  bracelets  and 
from  his  neck  hung  string  upon  string  of 
beads  falling  to  his  waist.  It  was  he  who 
with  suppressed  energy  flung  back  his 
head  as  he  gave  the  shrill  cry  and  quick- 
ened the  beat  of  the  tom-tom  until  louder 
and  louder,  faster  and  faster  swelled  the 
chant: 

''Come,  O!  ye  people!  Come  and  dance!" 
Then  out  into  the  open  on  the  green 
stepped  a  girl-child  scarcely  three  years 
62 


THE  GENTLE  SELISH 

of  age,  who  threw  herself  into  rhythmic 
motion,  swaying  her  small  body  to  the 
time  of  the  music  and  bearing  in  her 
quavering  treble  the  burden  of  the  chant. 
The  impressive  faces  of  the  spectators 
melted  into  smiles.  She  was  the  pet  of 
the  tribe,  the  orphan  granddaughter  of 
Joe  La  Mousse  and  his  venerable  wife. 
Loving  hands  had  made  for  her  a  war 
dress  which  she  wore  with  the  grave 
complaisance  of  one  favoured  above  her 
peers.  She  scorned  the  sedate  dances  of 
the  squaws  and  chose  the  quicker  action 
of  the  war  dance,  and  she  would  not  yield 
her  possession  of  the  field  without  a  strug- 
gle which  showed  that  the  spirit  of  her 
fighting  fathers  still  lived  in  her. 

Suddenly  a  brave  painted  grotesquely, 
dressed  in  splendid  colours  with  a  curious 
contrivance  fastened  about  his  waist  and 
standing  out  behind  like  a  tail,  bounded 
into  the  ring,  his  hurrying  feet  beating  to 
the  tintinnabulation  of  sleigh  bells  at- 
tached to  his  legs.  Michel  Kaiser  and  the 

63 


TRAILS  THROUGH  WESTERN  WOODS 

young  man  who  sat  beside  him  at  the 
tom-tom  gave  up  their  places  to  others, 
and  after  disappearing  for  a  moment 
came  forth  freed  from  encumbering  blan- 
kets, transformed  with  paint  and  orna- 
ment. A  fourth  dancer  joined  them  and 
the  awe-begetting  war  dance  began.  The 
movement  was  one  of  restrained  force. 
With  bent  heads  and  bodies  inclined  for- 
ward, one  arm  hanging  limp  and  the  other 
resting  easily  at  the  back,  they  tripped 
along  until  a  war-whoop  like  an  electric 
shock,  sent  them  springing  into  the  air 
with  faces  turned  upward  and  clenched 
fists  uplifted  toward  the  sky. 

It  was  now  that  Michel  stood  revealed 
in  all  his  physical  beauty.  In  colour  and 
form  he  was  like  a  perfectly  wrought 
bronze  statue.  He  was  tall  and  slender. 
His  arms  and  legs,  metal-hard,  were  fleet 
and  strong  and  his  every  motion  expressed 
agility  and  grace.  He  was  clad  in  the  full 
war-dress  of  the  Selish,  somewhat  the 
same  as  that  which  his  ancestors  had  worn 

64 


THE  GENTLE  SELISH 

before  the  coming  of  the  white  man.  Up- 
on his  head  was  a  bonnet  of  skunk  tails 
that  quivered  with  the  slightest  motion  of 
his  sinewy  body.  He  wore,  besides,  a 
shirt,  long,  fringed  buckskin  leggins  and 
beaded  moccasins.  He  was  decorated 
with  broad  anklets  and  little  bells  that 
tinkled  as  he  moved.  Of  the  four  dancers 
Michel  sprang  highest,  swung  in  most 
perfect  rhythm,  spent  in  that  wild  carni- 
val most  energy  and  force.  Supple  and 
lean  as  a  panther  he  curvetted  and 
darted ;  light  as  the  wind  his  moccasined 
feet  skimmed  over  the  green,  scarcely 
seeming  to  crush  a  spear  of  grass.  As  he 
went  through  that  terrible  pantomime 
practiced  by  his  fathers  before  they  set 
out  to  kill  or  die,  the  fire  flashing  in  his 
lynx-eyes,  his  slim  arm  poised  over  his 
head,  his  whole  willow-lithe  body  sway- 
ing to  the  impulse  of  the  war-lust,  it  was 
easy  to  fancy  how  that  play  might  be- 
come a  reality  and  he  who  danced  to  per- 
petuate an  ancient  form  might  turn  re- 

65 


TRAILS  THROUGH  WESTERN  WOODS 

lentless  demon  if  the  intoxication  of  the 
war-path  once  kindled  in  his  veins. 

This  war  dance  explained  many  things. 
It  was  a  portrayal  of  the  glorious  deeds  of 
the  warriors,  a  recitation  of  victorious 
achievement,  a  picture  of  battle,  of  strik- 
ing the  body  of  the  fallen  enemy — one  of 
the  great  tests  of  valor.  The  act  of  strik- 
ing was  considered  a  far  more  gallant  feat 
than  the  taking  of  a  scalp.  After  a  foe 
was  shot  and  had  fallen,  a  brave  seeking 
distinction,  dashed  forth  from  his  own 
band  into  the  open  field  and  under  the 
deadly  rain  of  the  enemy's  arrows,  struck 
with  his  hand  the  body  of  the  dead  or 
wounded  warrior.  In  doing  this  he  not 
only  courted  the  desperate  danger  of  that 
present  moment,  but  brought  upon  his 
head  the  relentless  vengeance  of  the  fam- 
ily, the  followers  and  the  tribe  of  the 
fallen  foe, — vengeance  of  a  kind  that  can 
wait  for  years  without  growing  cold.  By 
such  inspiring  examples  the  young  men 
were  stirred  to  emulation.  The  dance 
66 


/\  BRAHAM   Isaac  and  Michel  Kaiser 


THE  GENTLE  SELISH 

showed,  too^  how  in  the  past  the  storm- 
clouds  of  war  gathered  slowly  until,  with 
lightning  flash  and  thunder-blast,  the 
warriors  lashed  themselves  to  the  white- 
heat  of  frenzy  at  which  they  mocked 
death.  The  whole  thing  seemed  to  be  a 
marshalling  of  the  passions,  a  blood-fire 
as  irresistible  and  sweeping  as  those  floods 
of  flame  which  lay  the  forests  low. 

The  warriors  ceased  their  mad  career. 
The  sweat  streamed  from  their  brows  and 
down  their  cheeks  as  they  sat  beneath  the 
shade  trees  in  repose.  Still  the  tom-tom 
beat  and  the  chant  continued: 
*'Come,  O!  ye  people!  Come  and  dance!" 

They  needed  no  urging  now.  What 
did  they  care  for  vespers  and  sermons 
when  the  ghostly  voices  of  warrior-an- 
cestors, of  forest  dwellers  and  hunstmen 
came  echoing  from  the  lips  of  the  past? 
Their  spirit  was  aroused  and  the  festival 
would  last  until  the  passion  was  quenched 
and  their  veins  were  cooled. 

The  next  dance  was  started  by  a  squaw. 

67 


TRAILS  THROUGH  WESTERN  WOODS 

It  was  called  the  "choosing  dance,"  from 
the  fact  that  either  a  man  or  a  woman 
chose  a  partner  for  the  figure.  The  cere- 
mony of  invitation  was  simple.  The  one 
who  desired  to  invite  another,  grasped 
the  individual's  arm  and  said  briefly: 

"Dance!" 

The  couples  formed  two  circles  around 
the  tom-tom,  one  within  the  other,  then 
slowly  the  two  rings  moved  'round  and 
'round,  with  a  kind  of  short,  springing 
step,  droning  the  never-varying  chant. 
At  the  end  of  the  dance  the  one  who  had 
chosen  his  partner  presented  him  with  a 
gift.  In  some  cases  a  horse  or  a  cow  was 
bestowed  and  not  infrequently  blankets 
and  the  most  cherished  bead-work  belts 
and  hat-bands.  Custom  makes  the  accep- 
tance of  these  favours  compulsory.  Even 
the  alien  visitors  were  asked  to  take 
part  and  the  Indians  laughed  like  pleased 
children  to  welcome  them  to  the  dance. 
One  very  old  squaw,  Mrs.  "Nine  Pipes," 
took  her  blanket  from  her  body  and  her 
68 


THE  GENTLE  SELISH 

'kerchief  from  her  head  to  give  to  her 
white  partner,  and  a  brave,  having  chosen 
a  pale-faced  lady  for  the  figure,  and  being 
depleted  in  fortune  by  his  generosity  at  a 
former  festival,  borrowed  fifty  cents  from 
a  richer  companion  to  bestow  upon  her. 
It  was  all  done  in  the  best  of  faith  and 
friendliness,  with  child-like  good  will 
and  pleasure  in  the  doing. 

When  the  next  number  was  called, 
those  who  had  been  honoured  with  invita- 
tions and  gifts  returned  the  compliment. 
After  this  was  done,  the  Master  of  the 
Dance,  Michel  Kaiser,  stepped  into  the 
center  of  the  circle,  saying  in  the  deep 
gutturals  of  the  Selish  tongue,  with  all 
the  pomp  of  one  who  makes  a  proclama- 
tion, something  which  may  be  broadly 
rendered  into  these  English  words : 

"This  brave,  Jerome,  chose  for  his 
partner,  Mary,  and  gave  to  her  a  belt  of 
beads,  and  Mary  chose  for  her  partner, 
Jerome,  and  gave  to  him  a  silken  scarf." 

Around  the  circumference  of  the  great 

69 


TRAILS  THROUGH  WESTERN  WOODS 

ring  he  moved,  crying  aloud  the  names 
of  the  braves  and  maids  who  had  joined 
together  in  the  dance,  and  holding  up  to 
view  the  presents  they  had  exchanged. 

The  next  in  order  was  a  dance  of  the 
chase  by  the  four  young  men  who  had 
performed  the  war  dance.  In  this  the 
hunter  and  the  beast  he  pursued  were 
impersonated  and  the  pantomime  carried 
out  every  detail  of  the  fleeing  prey  and 
the  crafty  huntsmen  who  relentlessly 
drove  him  to  earth. 

The  fourth  measure  was  the  scalp 
dance  given  by  the  squaws,  a  rite  ancient- 
ly practiced  by  the  female  members  of 
families  whose  lords  had  returned  vic- 
torious from  battle,  bearing  as  trophies 
the  scalps  of  enemies  they  had  slain.  It 
was  considered  an  indignity  and  a  matter 
of  just  reproach  to  her  husband  or  broth- 
er, if  a  squaw  were  unable  to  take  part  in 
this  dance.  The  scalps  captured  in  war 
were  first  displayed  outside  the  lodges  of 
the  warriors  whose  spoil  they  were,  and 

70 


THE  GENTLE  SELISH 

after  a  time,  when  they  began  to  mortify 
or  "break  down,"  as  the  Indians  say,  the 
triumphant  squaws  gathered  them  togeth- 
er, threw  them  into  the  dust  and  stamped 
on  them,  heaping  upon  them  every  insult 
and  in  the  weird  ceremony  of  that  ghoul- 
ish dance,  consigning  them  to  eternal 
darkness,  for  no  brave  without  his  scalp 
could  enter  the  Happy  Hunting  Ground. 
The  chant  changed  in  this  figure.  The 
voices  of  the  women  rose  in  a  piercing 
falsetto,  broken  by  a  rapid  utterance  of 
the  single  syllable  "la,  la"  repeated  an 
incredible  length  of  time.  The  effect  was 
singularly  savage  and  strange,  emphasiz- 
ing the  barbarous  joy  of  the  vengeful 
women.  As  the  war  dance  was  the  call 
to  battle,  this  was  the  aftermath. 

In  pleasing  contrast  to  this  cruel  rite 
was  the  marriage  dance,  celebrated  by 
both  belles  and  braves.  The  young 
squaws,  in  their  gayest  attire,  ornamented 
with  the  best  samples  of  their  bead  work 
and  painted  bright  vermillion  about  the 

71 


TRAILS  THROUGH  WESTERN  WOODS 

lips  and  cheeks,  formed  a  chain  around 
the   tom-tom,   singing   shrilly.     Then    a 
brave  with  a  party  of  his  friends  stepped 
within  the  circle,  bearing  in  his  hand  a 
stick,  generally  a  small  branch  of  pine  or 
other  native  tree.     He   approached  the 
object  of  his  love  and  laid  the  branch  on 
her  shoulder.    If  she  rejected  his  suit  she 
pushed  the  branch  aside  and  he,  with  his 
followers,    retired    in    humiliation    and 
chagrin.     It  often   happened  that  more 
than  one  youth  desired  the  hand  of  the 
same  maiden,  and  the  place  of  the  reject- 
ed lover  was  taken  immediately  by  a  rival 
who  made  his  prayer.    If  the  maid  looked 
with  favor  upon  him   she   inclined  her 
head,  laying  her  cheek  upon  the  branch. 
This  was  at  once  the  betrothal  and  the 
marriage.    At  the  close  of  the  festivities 
the  lover  bore  her  to  his  lodge  and  they 
were  considered  man  and  wife. 

The  sun  set  mellow  rose  behind  the 
hills  which  swam   in   seas   of   deepening 
72 


THE  GENTLE  SELISH 

blue.  Twilight  unfolded  shadows  that 
climbed  from  the  valleys  to  the  peaks  and 
touched  them  with  deadening  gray  chill, 
until  the  warm  glow  died  in  the  bosom 
of  the  night.  Still  the  tom-tom  beat,  the 
chant  rose  and  fell,  the  dancers  wheeled 
on  madly,  singing  as  they  danced.  The 
darkness  thickened.  The  stars  wrote  mid- 
night in  the  sky.  Papooses  had  fallen 
asleep  and  women  sat  mute  and  tired 
with  watching.  By  the  flare  of  a  camp 
fire,  running  in  uneven  lights  over  the 
hurrying  figures,  one  might  see  four 
braves  leaping  and  swaying  in  the  war 
dance.  The  night  wore  on.  A  heavy  si- 
lence was  upon  the  hills  which  echoed 
back  the  war  cry,  the  tom-tom's  throb  and 
the  chant.  One,  then  another,  then  a  third 
dropped  out.  Still  the  quivering,  sweat- 
burnished  bronze  body  of  Michel 
writhed  and  twisted,  bent  and  sprang. 
The  lines  of  his  face  had  hardened,  the 
Vermillion  ran  down  his  cheeks  in  rivu- 
lets, as  of  blood,  and  the  corners  of  his 

73 


TRAILS  THROUGH  WESTERN  WOODS 

mouth  were  drawn  like  the  curves  of  a 
bow.  The  camp  fire  glowed  low.  The 
gray  of  the  dawn  came  up  out  of  the  East 
with  a  little  shuddering  wind  and  the 
faint  stars  burned  out.  The  tom-tom 
pulsed  slower,  the  chant  was  broken.  Sud- 
denly a  wild  cry  thrilled  through  the  pal- 
lid morn.  The  figure  of  Michel  darted 
upward  like  a  rocket  in  a  final  brilliant 
gush  of  life,  then  fell  senseless  upon  the 
ground. 

The  embers  grayed  to  ashes.  The  last 
spark  was  dead.  The  dance  was  done. 
The  mists  of  morning  rolled  up  from  the 
valleys  and  unfurled  their  pale  shrouds 
along  the  peaks,  and  the  Indians,  mere 
shadow-shapes,  like  phantoms  in  a  dream, 
stole  silently  away  and  vanished  with  the 
night. 


74 


ENCHANTED   WATERS 


CHAPTER  II 

ENCHANTED  WATERS 


THERE  is  a  lake  in  the  cloistered 
fastnesses  of  Sin-yal-min,  named 
by  the  Jesuit  priests  St.  Mary's, 
but  called  by  the  Indians  the  Waters  of 
the  Forgiven.  It  is  a  small  body  of  wa- 
ter overshadowed  by  abrupt  mountains, 
fed  by  a  beautiful  fall  and  for  some  rea- 
son, impossible  to  explain,  it  is  haunted 
by  an  atmosphere  at  once  ghostly  and  sad. 
So  potent  is  this  intangible  dread,  this 
fear  of  something  unseen,  this  melan- 
choly begotten  of  a  cause  unknown,  that 
every  visitor  is  conscious  of  it.  Most  of 
all,  the  Indians,  impressionable  and  fan- 
ciful as  children,  feel  the  weird  spell  and 
cherish  a  legend  of  it  as  nebulous  as  the 


TRAILS  THROUGH  WESTERN  WOODS 

mists  that  flutter  in  pale  wraith-shapes 
across  its  enchanted  depths. 

The  story  goes  that  once,  long  ago, 
someone  was  killed  upon  the  lake  and  the 
troubled  spirit  returns  to  haunt  the  scene 
of  its  mortal  passing,  but  the  murderer, 
smitten  with  remorse  and  repenting  of 
his  crime  was  finally  forgiven  by  the 
Great  Spirit,  and  the  lake  became  known 
as  the  Waters  of  the  Forgiven.  The 
shadow  of  that  crime  has  never  lifted  and 
it  broods  forever  over  the  lake's  dark  face 
and  upon  the  mountains  that  hold  it  in 
their  cup  of  stone.  There  the  echo  is 
multiplied.  If  one  calls  aloud,  a  chorus 
of  fantastic,  mocking  voices  takes  up  the 
sound  and  it  goes  crying  through  the  soli- 
tude like  lost  souls  in  Purgatory.  The 
Waters  of  the  Forgiven  exhale  their  eter- 
nal sigh,  their  pensive  gloom,  even  when 
the  sun  rides  high  in  the  blue,  but  to  feel 
the  fullness  of  its  spectral  melancholy,  one 
must  seek  it  out  in  the  secrecy  of  night. 
Then,  as  the  mellow  moon  rises  over  the 

78 


ENCHANTED  WATERS 

mountain  tops  laying  the  pale  fingers  of 
its  rays  suggestively  on  rock  and  tree, 
touching  them  with  magical  illusion  and 
transforming  them  to  goblin  shapes,  one 
palpitates  with  strange  fear,  is  impressed 
with  impending  disaster.  As  the  moon- 
light flows  in  misty  streams,  sealing  ravine 
and  lake-deep  in  shadow  the  more  in- 
tense for  the  contrast  of  white,  discrimin- 
ating light  that  runs  quicksilver-like  up- 
on the  ripples  of  the  water  and  the  quiv- 
ering needles  of  the  pine,  the  silence  is 
broken  by  dismal  howls.  It  is  the  lean, 
gray  timber  wolves.  Their  mournful  cry 
is  flung  back  again  by  the  ghostly  pack 
that  no  eye  sees  and  no  foot  can  track. 
Mountain  lions  yell  shrilly  and  are  an- 
swered by  distant  ones  of  their  kind  and 
inevitably  that  other  lesser  cry  comes 
back  again  and  again  as  though  the  phan- 
tom chorus  could  never  forget  nor  leave 
off  the  burden  of  that  lament.  Out  of  the 
pregnant  darkness  into  the  spectral  moon- 
light shadowy  creatures  come  to  the  shore 

79 


TRAILS  THROUGH  WESTERN  WOODS 

to  drink.  The  deer,  the  bear,  sometimes 
the  mountain  lion  and  the  elk  stalk  forth 
and  quench  their  thirst.  These  things 
are  strange  enough,  savage  enough  to  in- 
spire fear,  but  it  is  not  they,  nor  the  grisly 
mountains  that  create  the  terror  which  is 
a  phantasm,  the  dread  which  is  not  of 
flesh  nor  earth. 

No  Indian,  however  brave,  pitches  his 
tipi  by  this  lake  nor  crosses  its  waters,  for 
among  the  tangle  of  weeds  in  its  black, 
mysterious  bosom,  water  sirens  are  be- 
lieved to  dwell.  Ever  watchful  of  human 
prey  they  gaze  upward  from  their  mossy 
couches  and  if  a  boatman  venture  out  in 
his  frail  canoe,  they  rise,  entwining  their 
strangling,  white  arms  about  him,  press- 
ing him  with  kisses  poisonous  as  the  ser- 
pent's sting,  breathing  upon  him  their 
blighting,  deadly-sweet  breath  that  dulls 
his  senses  into  the  oblivion  of  eternal 
sleep. 


80 


ENCHANTED  WATERS 
II 

The  Jocko  or  Spotted  Lakes  are  en- 
chanted waters  also.  They  lie  high  up 
in  the  crown  of  the  continent — the  main 
range  of  the  Rocky  Mountains.  To  reach 
them  the  traveller  needs  patience  and 
strength  of  body  and  soul,  for  the  trail  is 
long  and  tortuous,  winding  along  the  rim 
of  sickening-steep  ravines,  across  treach- 
erous swamps,  amid  mighty  forests  to 
great  altitudes.  There  are  three  lakes  in 
this  group,  one  above  the  other,  the  last 
being  sometimes  called  the  Clearwater 
Lake  because  it  is  within  the  borders  of 
that  terrible  wilderness  whose  savage 
fastnesses  have  claimed  their  prey  of  lost 
wanderers. 

The  first  lake  is  inexpressibly  ghostly. 
The  flanks  of  the  mountains  rise  sheer  and 
frown  down  on  murky  waters,  leaving 
scarcely  any  shore,  and  around  their  mar- 
gin, gray-white  drift-wood  lies  scattered 
like  unburied  bones.  It  is  a  spectral  spot, 
8i 


TRAILS  THROUGH  WESTERN  WOODS 

unearthly,  colourless  as  a  moth,  preyed 
upon  by  a  lamentable  sadness  which 
broods  unbroken  in  the  solitude.  There 
the  fox-fire  kindles  in  the  darkness,  the 
owl  wheels  in  his  midnight  flight  and  pale 
shades  of  mist  unwind  their  shroud-like 
scarfs.  It  is  a  pool  of  the  dead,  a  region 
of  lost  hopes  and  throttling  despair. 

From  this  lake  the  trail  bears  upward 
through  dense  jungles  and  morasses,  veno- 
mously beautiful  with  huge,  brilliantly 
coloured  flowers  growing  to  the  height  of 
a  man.  Their  scarlet  and  yellow  disks 
exhale  an  overpowering  fragrance,  insid- 
ious, almost  narcotic  in  its  strength.  Be- 
neath rank  stalk  and  leaf,  rearing  blos- 
som and  entangling  vine,  creeping  things 
with  mortal  sting  dwell  in  the  dank,  sul- 
try-sweet shadow.  One  is  dazzled  with 
the  colour  and  the  scent;  charmed  and  re- 
pelled ;  tempted  on  into  treacherous  sink- 
holes by  a  wild  extravagance  of  beauty 
too  wanton  to  be  good. 

At  length  the  second  lake  unfolds  it- 
82 


ENCHANTED  WATERS 

self  from  the  living  screen  of  tree  and 
wooded  steep.  A  point  of  land,  stained 
blood-red,  juts  out  into  the  water  and  over 
it  tumbles  and  cascades  a  foam-whitened 
fall.  This  stain  of  crimson  is  a  thick- 
spun  carpet  of  Indian  Paint  Brush  inter- 
woven with  lush  grass.  The  mountains 
show  traces  of  orange  and  green,  appar- 
ently a  mineral  wash  hinting  of  undis- 
covered treasure. 

Looking  into  the  depths  of  the  lake  one 
is  impressed  with  its  freckled  appearance. 
A  blotch  of  milky  white,  then  one  of  dull 
yellow  mottles  the  water  and  even  as  one 
watches,  a  shadow  darkens  the  surface, 
concentrating,  scattering  in  kaleidoscopic 
variety,  then  disappearing  as  mysteriously 
as  it  came.  There  is  no  cloud  in  the  sky, 
nor  overhanging  tree,  nor  passing  bird 
to  cause  that  shade  without  substance.  At 
first  it  seems  inexplicable  and  the  Indians, 
finding  no  natural  reason  for  its  being, 
believe  it  to  be  the  forms  of  water  sirens 
gliding  to  and  fro.    On  this  account,  here 

83 


TRAILS  THROUGH  WESTERN  WOODS 

as  at  the  Waters  of  the  Forgiven  no  In- 
dian dares  to  come  alone  and  even  with 
human  company  he  fears  the  sirens'  spell. 
For  as  the  victim  sleeps  they  come,  draw- 
ing closer  and  breathing  his  breath  until 
he  dies.  If  one  watches  patiently  he  may 
see  that  the  dark  shadows  are  made  by 
shoals  of  fish,  gathering  and  dispersing, 
and  in  so  doing,  accentuating  and  lessen- 
ing the  sable  spots.  The  lake  is  as  un- 
even in  temperature  as  it  is  in  colour.  It 
has  hot  pools  and  icy  shallows,  so  it  is 
probably  fed  by  springs  as  well  as  by  the 
torrent  which  falls  from  the  peaks.  A 
strong,  sulphurous  odour  taints  the  air; 
the  water  is  unpleasant  to  the  taste  and 
the  sedgy  weeds  which  grow  about  the 
shores  are  stained.  And  as  the  waters  re- 
cede during  the  summer  heat,  along  the 
banks,  in  uneven  streaks  a  mineral  de- 
posit traces  their  retreat.  Towards  the 
end  of  July  or  August  a  curious  thing 
may  be  seen  in  this  Lake  of  the  Jocko.  A 
current  eddies  around  and  around  in  a 

84 


ENCHANTED  WATERS 

gigantic  whirlpool,  transforming  it  into  a 
mighty  funnel  with  an  underground  vent. 
At  a  considerable  distance  below  a  stream 
bursts  forth  from  the  mountain  side  with 
terrific  energy  of  pressure  and  plunges 
downward  in  a  foaming  torrent.  It  is  the 
Jocko  River,  —  the  gentle,  merry-voiced 
Jocko  of  the  prairie  which  winds  its 
course  among  lines  of  friendly  trees  and 
blossoms.  Who  would  guess  that  it  drew 
its  nurture  from  the  Lake  of  the  Jocko, 
siren-haunted,  poison-breathed,  which 
careful  Indians  avoid  as  a  region  of  the 
accursed?  Still  it  is  so  and  the  menace  of 
that  mysterious  lake  becomes  the  blessing 
of  the  plains. 

Such  are  the  Waters  of  the  Forgiven 
and  the  Jocko,  secure  in  their  solitude, 
guarded  more  potently  by  their  spell  of 
evil  than  by  wall  of  stone  or  armed  hosts, 
holding  within  their  deep,  dark  bosoms 
the  charm  of  the  water  sirens  whose  sad, 
sweet    song    quavers    in    the    music    of 

85 


TRAILS  THROUGH  WESTERN  WOODS 

fall  and  stream,  whose  pallid,  white  faces 
flash  lily-like  from  the  depths,  whose  en- 
tangling tresses  spread  in  flowing  masses 
of  sedgy  green. 

And  of  the  strange  things  which  have 
happened  on  those  shores,  of  the  braves 
lured  to  the  death-sleep  on  couches  of 
moss  and  pillows  of  lily  pad,  scarcely  an 
echo  shrills  down  from  the  white-shroud- 
ed peaks  to  give  warning  to  the  adventur- 
ers who  would  seek  out  the  awful  beauty 
of  those  Enchanted  Waters. 


86 


LAKE   ANGUS   McDONALD 


CHAPTER  III 

LAKE   ANGUS   MCDONALD   AND  THE   MAN 
FOR  WHOM  IT  WAS  NAMED 

WITHIN  the  range  of  Sin-yal- 
min,  which  rises  abruptly  from 
the  valley  of  the  Flathead  to  al- 
titudes of  perpetual  snow,  in  a  ravine 
sunk  deep  into  the  heart  of  the  mountains, 
is  Lake  Angus  McDonald.  Though  but 
a  few  miles  distant  the  bells  of  Saint  Ig- 
natius Mission  gather  the  children  of  the 
soil  to  prayer,  no  hand  has  marred  the  un- 
tamed beauty  of  this  lake  and  its  sur- 
rounding mountain  steeps  where  the 
eagle  builds  his  nest  in  security  and  the 
mountain  goat  and  bighorn  sheep  play 
unmolested  and  unafraid. 

The  prospect  is  a  magnificent  one  as 
the  roadway  uncoils  its  irregular,  tawny 
length  from  rolling  hills  into  the  level  sea 
of  green  where  only  a  year  or  two  ago 

89 


TRAILS  THROUGH  WESTERN  WOODS 

the  buffalo  grazed  in  peace.  Beyond,  the 
jagged  summits  of  Sin-yal-min  toss  their 
crests  against  the  sky,  their  own  impal- 
pable blue  a  shade  more  intense  than  the 
summer  heavens,  their  silvered  pinnacles 
one  with  the  drifting  cloud.  A  delicate, 
shimmering  thread  like  the  gossamer  tis- 
sue of  a  spider's  web  spins  its  length  from 
the  ethereal  brow  of  the  mountains  to  the 
lifted  arms  of  the  foothills  below.  The 
yellow  road  runs  through  the  valley,  pass- 
es the  emerald  patch  around  the  Mission 
and  thence  onward  to  blue  shadows  of 
peaks  where  gorges  flow  like  purple  seas 
and  distant  trees  are  points  of  azure.  The 
swelling  foothills  bear  one  up,  the  valley 
melts  away  far  beneath  and  sweet- 
breathed  woods  sigh  their  balsam  on  the 
breeze.  The  pass  becomes  more  difficult, 
the  growth  thickens.  Among  the  trees 
broad-leafed  thimble  berry,  brew  berry 
and  goose  berry  blossom  and  bear;  wild 
clematis  builds  pyramids  of  green  and 
white  over  the  bushes ;  syringa  bursts  into 
90 


LAKE   ANGUS    MCDONALD 

pale-Starred  flower,  and  a  shrub,  feathery, 
delicate,  sends  forth  long,  tender  stems 
which  break  into  an  intangible  mist  of 
bloom. 

Suddenly  out  of  the  tangled  forests,  a 
sheet  of  water,  smooth  and  clear,  appears, 
spreading  its  quicksilver  depths  among 
peaks  that  still  bear  their  burden  of  the 
glacial  age.  And  in  the  polished  mirror 
of  those  waters  is  reflected  the  perfect 
image  of  its  mountain  crown.  First,  the 
purplish  green  of  timbered  slopes,  then 
the  naked,  beetling  crags  and  deep  cre- 
vasse with  its  heart  of  ice.  A  heavy  silence 
broods  here,  broken  only  by  the  vv^ildly 
lonesome  cry  of  the  raven  quavering  in 
lessening  undulations  of  tone  through  the 
recesses  of  the  crags.  Two  Indians  near 
the  shore  flit  away  among  the  leaves, 
timid  as  deer  in  their  native  haunts.  Such 
is  Lake  Angus  McDonald,  and  yonder, 
presiding  over  all,  shouldering  its  per- 
petual burden  of  ice,  is  McDonald's 
Peak.    Strangely  beautiful  are  these  liv- 

91 


TRAILS  THROUGH  WESTERN  WOODS 

ing  monuments  to  the  name  and  fame  of 
a  man,  and  one  naturally  asks  who  was 
this  Angus  McDonald  that  his  memory 
should  endure  in  the  eternal  mountains 
within  the  crystal  cup  of  this  snow-fed 
lake? 

The  question  is  worth  the  answering. 
Angus  McDonald  was  a  Highland 
Scotchman,  sent  out  into  the  western  wil- 
derness by  the  Hudson  Bay  Company. 
There  must  have  lurked  in  his  robust 
blood  the  mastering  love  of  freedom  and 
adventure  which  led  the  scions  of  the 
House  of  McDonald  to  such  strange  and 
varied  destinies;  which  made  such  char- 
acters in  the  Scottish  hills  as  Rob  Roy 
and  clothed  the  kilted  clans  with  a  ro- 
mantic colour  totally  wanting  in  their 
stolid  brethren  of  the  Lowlands.  In  any 
event,  it  is  certain  that  Angus  McDon- 
ald, once  within  the  magic  of  the  wild, 
flung  aside  the  ties  that  bound  him  to  the 
outer  world  and  became  in  dress,  in  man- 
ner of  life  and  in  heart,  an  Indian.  He 
92 


LAKE   ANGUS    MCDONALD 

took  unto  himself  an  Indian  wife,  begot 
sons  who  were  Indians  in  colour  and  form 
and  like  his  adopted  people,  he  hunted 
upon  the  heights,  moved  his  tipi  from 
valley  to  mountain  as  capricious  notion 
prompted,  and  finally  made  for  himself 
and  his  family  a  home  in  the  valley  of 
Sin-yal-min  not  far  below  that  lake  and 
peak  which  do  honor  to  his  memory. 
Physically  he  was  a  man  of  towering  sta- 
ture, standing  over  six  feet  in  his  mocca- 
sins; his  shoulders  were  broad  and  he  was 
very  erect.  His  leonine  head  was  clad 
with  a  heavy  shock  of  hair,  and  his  beard, 
during  his  later  years,  snow  white,  hung 
to  his  waist.  His  complexion  was  ruddy, 
his  eyes,  clear,  blue  and  penetrating.  A 
picturesque  figure  he  must  have  been,  clad 
in  full  buckskin  leggins  and  shirt  with  a 
blanket  wrapped  around  him.  He  was 
known  among  the  Indians  and  whites 
through  the  length  and  breadth  of  the 
country  about,  and  no  more  strange  or 
striking  character  quickened  the  adven- 

93 


TRAILS  THROUGH  WESTERN  WOODS 

ture-bearing  epoch  which  we  call  the 
Early  Days. 

As  he  was  free  to  the  point  of  light- 
ness in  his  nature,  trampling  down  and 
discarding  every  shackle  of  convention- 
ality, he  was  likewise  bound  but  nomi- 
nally by  the  Christian  creed.  He  believed 
in  reincarnation  and  his  one  desire  was 
that  in  the  hereafter,  when  his  soul  should 
be  sent  to  tenant  the  new  body,  he  might 
be  re-born  in  the  form  of  a  wild,  white 
horse,  with  proud,  arched  neck  and  earth- 
scorning  hoofs,  dashing  wind-swift  over 
the  broad  prairies  into  the  sheltering  hills. 

So  it  seems  fitting  that  McDonald's 
Peak  and  Lake  should  remain  untamed 
even  as  their  namesake;  that  the  eddying 
whirlpool  of  life  should  pass  them  by  and 
that  in  their  embrace  the  native  creatures 
should  live  and  range  as  of  yore.  And 
may  it  be  that  within  those  shadowy 
gorges,  remote  from  the  sight  and  hear- 
ing of  man,  a  wild,  white  horse  goes 
bounding  through  the  night? 

94 


SOME   INDIAN   MISSIONS 


CHAPTER  IV 

SOME  INDIAN  MISSIONS  OF  THE 
NORTHWEST 

MORE  than  a  century  after  the 
Spanish  Francescans  planted 
the  Cross  upon  the  Pacific 
shores,  the  French,  Belgian  and  Italian 
Jesuits  or  robes  noires,  took  their  way  in- 
to the  Northwestern  wilderness  in  re- 
sponse to  a  cry  from  the  people  who  lived 
within  its  solitudes.  Civilization  follows 
the  highways  of  intercourse  with  the  out- 
er world,  so  the  Western  coast  had  passed 
through  the  struggle  of  its  beginnings 
and  entered  into  a  period  of  prosperity 
and  peace,  while  that  territory  with  the 
Rocky  Mountains  as  its  general  center, 
was  still  as  primeval  as  when  the  galle- 
ons of  Juan  de  Fuca  sailed  into  Puget 
Sound. 
The  mellowness  of  old  romance,  the 

97 


TRAILS  THROUGH  WESTERN  WOODS 

warmth  of  Latin  colour,  hang  over  the 
Missions  of  California.  Th-e  pilgrim  lin- 
gers reverently  in  their  cloistered  recess- 
es, breathing  the  scent  of  orange  blos- 
soms, reposing  in  the  shade  of  palm  and 
pepper  trees.  With  the  song  of  the  sea 
in  his  ears  and  its  sapphire  glint  in  his  eye 
he  re-lives  the  olden  days,  w^eaves  for 
himself  out  of  imagination's  threads,  a 
picture  as  harmonious  in  its  tones  of  faded 
rose  and  gray  as  an  ancient  tapestry.  How 
much  the  architectural  beauty  of  these 
Missions  has  brought  them  within  the  af- 
fectionate regard  of  the  people  it  is  hard 
to  say,  but  undoubtedly  it  has  had  an  in- 
fluence. The  graceful  lines  of  arch  and 
pillar,  the  low,  broad  sweep  of  roof  and 
corridor,  the  delicate,  yellowish-white  of 
the  adobe  outlined  against  a  sky  of  royal 
blue,  stir  the  sleeping  sense  of  beauty  in 
our  hearts  and  make  us  pause  to  worship 
at  such  favoured  shrines. 

It  is  for  precisely  the  opposite  reason 
that  we  are  drawn  to  the  Missions  of  the 

98 


SOME  INDIAN  MISSIONS 

Northwest.  Austere,  ascetic  in  form, 
they  make  their  appeal  because  of  their 
unadorned  simplicity.  They  were  orig- 
inally the  plainest  structures  of  logs,  add- 
ed to  as  occasion  demanded  and  always 
constructed  of  such  homely  materials  as 
the  surrounding  country  could  yield. 
Hands  unaccustomed  to  other  labours  than 
telling  the  rosary  or  making  the  sign  of 
the  Cross,  hewed  forest  trees  and  wrought 
in  wood  the  symbol  of  their  teaching.  No 
wonder,  then,  that  the  buildings  were 
small  and  crude^  but  their  lack  of  gran- 
deur was  the  best  testimony  to  the  sacrifice 
and  noble  purpose  of  which  they  were 
the  emblems.  Overlooked,  isolated  they 
stand,  passed  by  and  all  but  unknown.  Yet 
they  are  monuments  of  heroic  achieve- 
ment and  devotion;  brave  men  risked 
their  lives  willingly  to  lay  these  founda- 
tion stones  of  the  faith;  bitter  struggles 
were  fought  and  won  in  their  consecrated 
shadows  and  upon  them  is  the  glamour  of 
thrilling  episode. 

99 


TRAILS  THROUGH  WESTERN  WOODS 

During  the  seventeenth  century  a  little 
band  of  French  missionaries  of  the  order 
of  St.  Ignatius  journeyed  from  their  na- 
tive France  to  Canadian  territory  with 
the  purpose  of  spreading  the  word  of  God 
amongst  the  savages  of  that  benighted 
land.  One  of  them,  Father  Ignace  Jogues, 
became  the  apostle  of  the  Iroquois  and 
died  at  their  hands,  a  martyr.  Strangely 
enough,  his  teachings  lived  after  him  and 
were  preserved  in  a  measure,  at  least,  by 
those  who  had  murdered  him  because  of 
the  message  he  brought. 

Years  afterwards,  about  1815,  a  small 
party  of  Iroquois  took  their  way  from 
the  Mission  of  Caughnawaga,  in  the 
neighbourhood  of  Sault  St.  Louis,  on  the 
banks  of  the  Saint  Lawrence  River,  and 
proceeded,  probably  in  quest  of  furs,  into 
the  little  known  and  perilous  ascents  of 
the  Rocky  Mountains.  This  party  was 
headed  by  one  Ignace  La  Mousse,  his 
given  name  being  by  a  curious  coinci- 
dence, the  same  as  that  of  the  martyred 
100 


SOME  INDIAN  MISSIONS 

disciple  of  the  Gospel.  He  was  a  man  of 
lordly  stature  and  puissance  indomitable. 
Upon  their  wanderings  they  came  to 
Spetlemen,  "the  place  of  the  Bitter  Root," 
a  mild,  fair  valley  where  dwelt  a  folk 
kindly  in  their  natures,  who  called  them- 
selves the  Selish.  These  people  wel- 
comed the  Iroquois,  made  them  at  home 
in  their  lodges  and  shared  with  them  the 
sports  of  the  chase  until  the  visiting  In- 
dians were  visitors  no  more  and  claimed 
no  other  land  than  this. 

From  the  lips  of  Old  Ignace,  as  he 
was  known,  the  Selish  heard  of  a  mys- 
terious faith  symbolized  by  a  Cross,  a 
greater  medicine  than  that  of  any  of  the 
tribes,  and  of  pale-faced,  sable-robed 
priests,  who,  in  the  olden  time,  taught  that 
faith  and  died  happily  in  the  teaching. 

The  Selish  practiced  a  simple,  spon- 
taneous kind  of  paganism.  They  be- 
lieved in  a  Good  and  Evil  Spirit  who 
were  constantly  at  war.  These  two  pow- 
ers were  symbolized  by  light  and  dark- 

lOI 


TRAILS  THROUGH  WESTERN  WOODS 

ness  and  their  heroic  battle  was  pictured 
in  the  alternate  triumph  of  day  and  night. 
If  buffalo  came  in  plenty,  if  elk  and 
moose  were  slain  and  the  season's  yield 
were  rich,  then,  according  to  their  notion, 
the  Good  Spirit  was  in  the  ascendency; 
but  if,  on  the  other  hand.  Winter  rode 
down  from  the  mountains  while  their  lar- 
der was  low,  if  fish  would  not  bite  and 
game  could  not  be  caught,  the  influence 
of  the  Evil  Spirit  prevailed.  They  be- 
lieved also,  in  a  future  existence,  happy 
or  miserable  according  to  the  merit  or 
demerit  of  the  soul  during  its  mortal  life. 
The  worthy  shade  passed  into  eternal 
Summer  time,  to  a  land  watered  by  fair 
streams  and  green  with  meadows ;  in  these 
streams  were  countless  fishes  and  in  the 
meadows  bands  of  wild  horses  and  end- 
less herds  of  the  beloved  buffalo.  There 
the  spirit,  united  with  its  family,  would 
ride  through  all  eternity,  hunting 
amongst  the  ghostly  flocks  in  the  Summer 
sun  of  happy  souls.  But  those  who  had 
1 02 


SOME  INDIAN  MISSIONS 

violated  the  tenets  of  the  tribe,  who  had 
been  liars,  cowards  or  otherwise  dishon- 
ourable, and  those  negative  offenders  who 
had  been  lacking  in  love  for  their  wives, 
husbands  and  children,  had  sealed  for 
themselves  a  bitter  fate.  These  outcasts 
went  to  an  arctic  region  of  everlasting 
snow  where  false  fires  were  kindled  to  tor- 
ment their  frozen  limbs  with  the  mocking 
promise  of  warmth.  Phantom  streams  of- 
fered their  parched  lips  drink,  but  as 
they  hastened  to  the  banks  to  quench  their 
thirst,  the  elusive  waters  were  ever  far- 
ther and  farther  away.  So  ever  and  anon, 
through  the  years  that  never  seemed  to 
die,  the  shades  were  doomed  to  hurry  on- 
ward through  the  night  and  cold  of  Win- 
ter that  knows  no  Spring,  in  misery  as 
dark  as  the  shadow  engulfing  them.  The 
Lands  of  Good  and  Evil  were  separated 
by  savage  woods,  inhabited  by  hungry 
wolves,  lithe  wild  cats  and  serpents  coiled 
to  strike.  The  wretched  sinner  in  his 
prison  of  ice,  might  after  a  period  of  pen- 
103 


li 


TRAILS  THROUGH  WESTERN  WOODS 

ance,  short  or  long,  according  to  the 
measure  of  his  offense,  expiate  his  sins 
and  join  his  brethren  in  the  Happy 
Hunting  Ground. 

Besides  this  general  belief  held  in  com- 
mon by  the  tribe^  they  cherished  count- 
less myths  such  as  those  of  the  creation 
and  many  lesser  fanciful  legends  which 
formed  a  part.of  their  religion. 

Although  these  Indians  were  sincere 
in  this  simple,  half-poetical  mythology, 
they  listened  very  willingly,  like  eager 
children,  to  Old  Ignace,  and  from  him 
learned  to  make  the  sacred  sign  and  re- 
peat the  white  man's  prayer.  After 
knowing  something  of  their  mysticism  it 
is  not  surprising  that  the  greater  mysti- 
cism of  the  Catholic  Church  should  ap- 
peal to  them ;  that  once  having  heard  the 
story  of  a  faith  much  in  accord  with  many 
of  their  elementary,  pre-conceived  ideas, 
they  should  pursue  it  tirelessly  until  they 
gained  that  which  they  most  desired. 

Time  upon  time  at  the  councils,  the 
104 


SOME  INDIAN  MISSIONS 

chiefs  discussed  a  means  of  getting  a 
Black  Robe  to  come  to  them.  At  last,  in 
a  mighty  assembly,  Old  Ignace  arose  and 
proposed  that  a  delegation  be  sent  to  St. 
Louis  to  pray  that  an  apostle  of  the  church 
might  come  to  shed  the  light  of  the  new 
faith  upon  the  darkness  of  the  Western 
Woods.  A  stir  of  approval  ran  through 
the  attentive  people,  for  it  was  a  great 
and  daring  thing  to  think  of.  But  who 
would  go?  The  journey  of  about  two 
thousand  miles  lay  over  barriers  of  moun- 
tains, rushing  torrents,  virgin  forests 
where  the  sun  never  shone,  and  worst  of 
all,  penetrated  the  country  of  their  hered- 
itary enemies,  the  Sioux.  In  spite  of 
these  perils,  in  the  breathless  quiet  of 
expectation  that  had  hushed  the  tribe, 
four  braves  came  forward  and  volun- 
teered to  undertake  the  quest. 

The  knights  of  the  olden   days,  who 

went  forth  sheathed  in  armour,  in  goodly 

cavalcades,  to  the  land  of  the  Saracen  in 

search  of  the  Holy  Grail,  have  gathered 

los 


TRAILS  THROUGH  WESTERN  WOODS 

about  their  memory  the  white  light  of 
heroism,  but  if  their  daring  and  that  of 
these  four  were  weighed  impartially,  the 
Indians  would  rise  higher  in  the  scale  of 
glory.  Alone,  afoot,  armed  only  with 
such  weapons  as  their  skill  could  con- 
trive, they  started  out  in  the  Spring  of 
1 83 1,  and  in  spite  of  the  death  that  lurked 
around  them,  reached  their  journey's  end 
with  the  Autumn.  The  tragical  after- 
math of  that  heroic  adventure  followed 
quickly.  The  dangers  overcome,  the  goal 
won,  they  failed.  Not  one  among  them 
could  speak  a  word  of  French  or  Eng- 
lish. They  sought  out  General  Clark 
who  had  penetrated  into  their  lands,  but 
what  brought  them  from  across  the 
Rocky  Mountains,  through  the  teeth  of 
perdition  to  St.  Louis,  not  even  he  could 
guess.  Picture  the  tragedy  of  being  with- 
in reach  of  the  treasure  and  unable  to  point 
it  out!  Through  General  Clark  the  four 
emissaries  were  conducted  to  the  Catholic 
Church.  Monseigneur,  the  Bishop,  was 
106 


SOME  INDIAN  MISSIONS 

absent — he  whom  they  had  travelled  six 
moons  to  see.  Very  soon  thereafter,  two 
of  the  number  fell  ill  as  a  result  of  ex- 
posure. In  their  sickness,  doomed  to  die 
in  a  strange  land  far,  far  from  the  pleas- 
ant glades  of  their  native  valley,  they 
made  the  sign  of  the  Cross  and  other  fee- 
ble gestures  which  some  priests  who  vis- 
ited them  interpreted  rightly  to  be  an  ap- 
peal for  baptism  and  the  last  rites  of  the 
church.  The  priests  accordingly  gave 
them  the  consolation  they  prayed  for  and 
placed  in  the  hands  of  each  a  little  cruci- 
fix. So  rigidly  did  they  press  these  sym- 
bols to  their  breasts,  that  they  retained 
them  even  in  death.  Still  in  their  final 
agonies  not  one  word  could  they  tell  of 
that  mission  for  which  they  were  even 
then  yielding  up  their  lives.  They  died 
christened  Narcisse  and  Paul  and  were 
buried  in  a  Catholic  cemetery  in  the  City 
of  St.  Louis. 

The  two  survivors,  nameless  shadows, 
flitted  back  into  the  wild  and  were  lost 
107 


TRAILS  THROUGH  WESTERN  WOODS 

forever  in  the  darkness.  No  tidings  of 
them  ever  reached  the  waiting  tribe,  so 
they,  too,  sacrificed  themselves  to  a  fruit- 
less cause. 

After  these  things  had  happened  a  Ca- 
nadian, familiar  with  the  Indians,  in- 
formed the  good  fathers  who  these  chil- 
dren of  the  forest  were  and  of  their 
devotion  to  a  Faith,  the  merest  glimmer- 
ing of  which  had  penetrated  to  their 
remote  and  isolated  valley.  Then  a  priest 
of  the  Cathedral  ofifered  to  go  with  one 
companion  to  these  zealous  Indians  when 
the  Spring  should  make  possible  the  des- 
perate trip. 

Meantime,  the  Selish  waited  long  and 
anxiously  for  word  from  their  delegation. 
Michel  Insula,  or  Red  Feather,  "Little 
Chief  and  Great  Warrior,"  small  of  stat- 
ure but  mighty  of  spirit,  always  distin- 
guished by  the  red  feather  he  wore,  hear- 
ing that  some  missionaries  were  travel- 
ling westward,  fought  his  way  through 
the  hostile  country  and  arrived  at  the 

io8 


SOME  INDIAN  MISSIONS 

Green  River  Rendezvous  where  Indians, 
trappers  and  some  Protestant  ministers 
were  assembled.  Insula  was  dissatisfied 
with  the  ministers  because  they  had 
wives,  wore  no  black  gowns  such  as  Old 
Ignace  described,  and  carried  no  crucifix. 
The  symbolism  of  the  Catholic  Church 
had  impressed  him  deeply  and  he  would 
have  no  other  faith,  so  he  and  his  band  re- 
turned to  their  people  to  tell  them  that 
the  robes  noires  were  not  yet  come  and 
their  brave  messengers  had  perished  with 
their  mission  unfulfilled. 

They  were  resolute  men,  these  Indians, 
and  never  faltering,  they  determined  to 
send  another  party  upon  the  same  sacred 
quest.  This  time  Old  Ignace,  he  who 
had  first  broached  the  adventure  to  the 
council,  arose  among  the  chiefs  and  war- 
riors and  offered  to  go.  He  took  with 
him  his  two  young  sons.  The  Summer 
was  already  well  spent,  but  he  and  the 
lads  started  out  undaunted,  and  after  a 
terrible  period  of  ceaseless  travelling, 
109 


TRAILS  THROUGH  WESTERN  WOODS 

smitten  with  cold  and  hunger,  they 
reached  St.  Louis,  and  Ignace  more  fa- 
voured than  the  preceding  delegation, 
made  known  the  wants  of  his  adopted 
tribe  to  the  Bishop,  who  listened  to  him 
kindly  and  promised  to  send  a  priest 
among  his  people. 

Ignace  and  his  sons  returned  safely  to 
the  Bitter  Root  Valley  and  brought  the 
glad  tidings  to  the  Selish.  But  eighteen 
moons  waxed  and  waned  and  though  the 
watchful  eyes  of  the  Indians  scanned  the 
East,  never  a  pale-faced  father  in  robes 
of  black  came  out  of  the  land  of  the  sun- 
rise. 

The  chiefs  took  counsel  again.  A  third 
time  they  determined  to  make  their  ap- 
peal. Once  more  Ignace  La  Mousse  led  the 
way  and  in  his  charge  were  three  Selish 
and  one  Nez  Perce  brave.  They  fell  in 
with  a  little  party  of  white  people  near 
Fort  Laramie,  and  uniting  forces  for 
greater  safety,  took  up  the  march  to- 
gether.    They  journeyed  onward  unmo- 

IIO 


SOME  INDIAN  MISSIONS 

lested  until  they  came  to  Ash  Hollow  in 
the  land  of  the  warlike  Sioux.  In  that 
fateful  place  three  hundred  of  the  hostile 
tribe  surrounded  them.  The  Sioux,  wish- 
ing only  the  scalps  of  the  Selish  and  Nez 
Perce,  ordered  the  white  men  and  Old 
Ignace  who  was  dressed  in  the  garb  of 
civilization,  to  stand  apart.  The  whites 
obeyed,  but  Ignace  La  Mousse,  scorning 
favour  or  mercy  at  the  enemy's  hands, 
joined  his  adopted  tribal  brethren  and 
fought  with  them  until  they  all  lay  dead 
upon  the  plains.  So  ended  the  third  ex- 
pedition. 

Once  more  news  of  the  bloody  death  of 
their  heroes  reached  the  Selish.  A  fourth 
and  last  party  volunteered  to  undertake 
that  which  now  seemed  a  hopeless  charge. 
Two  Iroquois,  Young  Ignace  La  Mousse, 
so  called  to  distinguish  him  from  the 
elder  of  the  name,  whose  memory  was 
held  honourable  by  the  tribe,  and  Pierre 
Gaucher,  ''Left  Handed  Peter,"  set  out, 
joining  a  party  of  the  Hudson  Bay  Fur 
III 


TRAILS  THROUGH  WESTERN  WOODS 

Company's  men  and  making  the  trip  in 
canoes.  They  finished  the  journey  in 
safety  and  obtained  from  Monseigneur, 
the  Bishop,  the  pledge  that  in  the  Spring 
he  would  send  a  missionary  to  the  Valley 
of  the  Bitter  Root.  Young  Ignace  waited 
at  the  mouth  of  Bear  River  through  the 
Winter  in  order  to  be  ready  to  guide  the 
priest  to  the  Selish  with  the  coming  of 
the  Spring.  Pierre  Gaucher  returned 
hot-footed,  in  triumph,  conveying  to  the 
tribe  the  glad  tidings  that  their  prayer 
had  been  answered;  that  the  Great  Black 
Robe  was  sending  them  a  disciple  to 
preach  the  Holy  Word.  At  last,  after 
eight  years  of  waiting,  the  Selish  were  to 
have  granted  them  their  hearts'  desire. 
From  out  of  the  East  the  pale-faced, 
black  robed  father  would  come  bearing 
with  him  the  Cross  illuminated  by  the 
rising  sun,  casting  the  benediction  of  its 
shadow  upon  the  people  and  their  land. 

When  the  Selish  learned  from  Pierre 
Gaucher  that  the  rohe  noire  was  in  reality 
112 


SOME  INDIAN  MISSIONS 

travelling  towards  their  country  even 
then,  the  Great  Chief  assembled  his 
braves  and  it  was  decided  that  the  tribe 
should  march  forward  to  meet  and  wel- 
come their  missionary.  Accordingly  they 
started  in  good  season  and  on  their  way 
met  groups  of  Kalispehlms,  Nez  Perces 
and  Pend  d'Oreilles,  who  joined  them, 
swelling  their  number  to  about  sixteen 
hundred  souls.  The  ever  increasing  cav- 
alcade moved  on  over  pass  and  valley, 
peak  and  ford,  clad  in  rich  furs,  war- 
eagle  feathers  and  buckskins  bright  with 
beads — a  gaily  coloured  column  filing 
through  the  woods.  Finally,  in  the  Pierre 
Hole  Valley  they  came  upon  him  who 
was  henceforth  to  be  their  teacher  and 
guide.  Father  de  Smet,  whose  memory  is 
held  in  reverence  by  the  Indians  of  the 
present  generation. 

There  was  great  rejoicing  among  the 
Selish,  the  Nez  Perces,  the  Pend  d'Oreil- 
les  and  the  Kalispehlms.  They  burst  into 
wild  shouts  of  delight,  swarming  around 

"3 


TRAILS  THROUGH  WESTERN  WOODS 

the  pale  priest,  shaking  his  hand  and 
bowing  down  before  him.  They  con- 
ducted him  to  the  lodge  of  the  Great 
Chief,  called  the  ''Big  Face,"  whom 
Father  de  Smet  has  described  as  one 
"who  had  the  appearance  of  a  patriarch." 
The  Chief  made  Father  de  Smet  wel- 
come in  these  words: 

"  'This  day  the  Great  Spirit  has  accom- 
plished our  wishes  and  our  hearts  are 
swelled  with  joy.  Our  desire  to  be  in- 
structed was  so  great  that  four  times  had 
we  deputed  our  people  to  the  Great 
Black  Robe  in  St.  Louis  to  obtain  priests. 
Now,  Father,  speak  and  we  will  comply 
with  all  that  you  will  tell  us.  Show  us 
the  way  we  have  to  take  to  go  to  the  home 
of  the  Great  Spirit.'  " 

Thus  spake  the  Big  Face,  Chief  of  all 
the  Selish,  and  there  before  the  assembled 
peoples  of  the  kindred  tribes,  he  offered 
to  the  priest  his  hereditary  honours  as 
ruler.  His  renunciation  was  sincere, 
but  Father  de  Smet  replied  that  he  had 
114 


I 


SOME  INDIAN  MISSIONS 

come   merely   to    teach,    not   to   govern 
them. 

That  night  in  the  deepening  shadow, 
the  children  of  the  forest  gathered  to- 
gether around  their  new  leader  and 
chanted  a  song  of  praise.  Strange  music 
swelling  from  untutored  lips  and  awak- 
ening hearts  into  the  wild  silence  which 
had  echoed  only  the  howl  of  native  beasts 
and  the  war  cry  of  battle  and  death!  Yet 
even  in  that  hymn  of  thanksgiving  there 
was  an  undertone  of  unconscious  sadness. 
It  was  the  beginning  of  a  new  epoch.  The 
old,  poetical  wood-myth  and  paganism 
were  gone;  the  free  range  over  mountain 
and  plain  in  the  exhilarating  chase  would 
slowly  give  place  to  the  pursuits  of  hus- 
bandry. And  this  new,  shapeless  com- 
pound of  civilization  and  religion  was 
bringing  with  its  blessings,  a  burden  of 
obligation  and  pain.  The  Indians  did  not 
know,  the  priest  himself  could  not  under- 
stand, that  he  was  the  channel  through 
which  these  simple,  happy  folk  should 

IIS 


TRAILS  THROUGH  WESTERN  WOODS 
embark  upon  dangerous,  devouring  seas. 

Father  De  Smet  was  a  Belgian  and  he 
had  spent  some  time  with  the  Pottowa- 
tamies,  in  Kansas.  He  understood  the  In- 
dians well  and  what  was  most  important, 
he  loved  them.  He  remained  among  the 
Selish  long  enough  to  be  assured  of  their 
docile  nature  and  sincerity  of  purpose, 
then  returned  to  St.  Louis  to  urge  the  es- 
tablishment of  a  permament  mission  and 
to  ask  for  assistance  to  carry  on  his  work. 
Monseigneur,  the  Bishop,  listened  favour- 
ably to  his  appeal  and  consequently,  in 
the  Spring  of  1841,  Father  De  Smet,  re- 
inforced with  two  Italian  priests,  three 
lay  brothers  and  some  other  man,  started 
for  the  Rocky  Mountains.  The  Selish 
had  promised  to  meet  the  party  at  a  given 
place  at  the  base  of  the  Wind  River 
Mountains,  on  the  first  day  of  July.  The 
Indians  waited  until  they  were  driven  by 
hunger  to  hunt  in  more  likely  fields.  The 
Fathers,  learning  of  this,  sent  a  messen- 
116 


< 
z 

o 

Q 
u 


< 
z 

o 

Q 
u 


'<1 


SOME  INDIAN  MISSIONS 

ger  to  recall  them,  and  they  hastened 
back  to  greet  their  apostle  and  his  fol- 
lowers. And  of  that  little  band  there 
were  Charles  and  Francois,  the  sons  of 
Old  Ignace,  the  Iroquois,  Simon,  the  old- 
est of  the  tribe,  and  Young  Ignace  of 
great  fame,  who,  we  are  told,  journeyed 
for  four  long  days  and  nights  having 
neither  food  nor  drink,  in  his  haste  to 
make  good  his  promise  to  meet  the  robes 
notres. 

So  far  was  the  season  advanced  that 
the  Selish  had  started  on  their  bufifalo 
hunt.  Therefore,  the  priests  whose  sup- 
plies were  exhausted,  with  their  Indian 
friends,  went  on  to  Fort  Hall,  procured 
provisions  there,  and  then  proceeded  to 
the  Beaverhead  River  to  join  the  tribe. 
The  priests  stayed  only  a  few  days  among 
the  Indians  who  were  absorbed  in  the 
chase,  and  again  took  up  their  journey 
with  the  Bitter  Root  valley  as  the  chosen 
place  of  permanent  rest.  There  they  had 
determined  to  build  the  Mission,  "the 
117 


TRAILS  THROUGH  WESTERN  WOODS 

house  of  the  Great  Spirit,"  and  there  the 
Selish  promised  to  join  them  after  the 
hunt  was  over  in  the  Fall.  Along  the 
course  of  the  Hell  Gate  River  they  took 
their  way  and  at  last  came  safely  within 
the  green  refuge  of  the  valley  to  lay  down 
their  burden  and  build  their  church. 
They  selected  a  fair  spot  near  the  present 
site  of  Stevensville  and  laboured  long  to 
fashion  the  pioneer  home  of  the  Faith 
which  they  called  The  Mission  of  St. 
Mary's.  The  good  priests  went  farther 
still  and  re-named  the  valley,  the  river 
watering  it  and  the  highest  peak,  St. 
Mary's,  so  anxious  were  they  in  their  zeal 
to  eradicate  every  trace  of  the  old,  pagan 
beliefs  of  their  converts,  even  to  the  names 
of  the  valleys,  lakes  and  hills! 

The  element  of  incongruity  and  pity  in 
this,  the  zealous  fathers  did  not  appreci- 
ate. That  a  jagged,  beetling  crest,  the 
home  of  the  thunder  cloud,  the  womb 
whence  issues  glacier  and  roaring  stream, 
fit  to  be  Jove's  dwelling,  should  bear  the 

ii8 


SOME  INDIAN  MISSIONS 

mild  title  of  St.  Mary's,  did  not  shock 
their  notions  of  the  eternal  fitness  of 
things.  Happily,  the  valley  with  its  rose- 
starred  brocade  of  flowers,  is  still  the  Bit- 
ter Root  and  a  re-awakening  interest  is 
calling  the  old  names  from  their  long 
oblivion  to  take  their  places  once  again, 
vesting  peak  and  stream  and  grassy  vale 
with  a  significance  of  meaning  totally 
wanting  in  the  artificial  foreign  titles 
forced  on  them  by  those  who  neither  knew 
nor  cared  for  their  tradition  and  senti- 
ment. And  even  the  ancient  gods  and 
spirits  are  no  longer  despised  as  evils  an- 
tagonistic to  the  salvation  of  the  soul. 
Lafcadio  Hearn  expressed  pity  for  the 
cast-off  Shinto  gods  whose  places  were 
usurped  by  the  deities  of  the  Buddhist 
creed.  Likewise,  the  best  Christian 
amongst  us,  if  he  looks  beneath  the  sur- 
face into  the  heart  of  things,  must  be  con- 
scious of  a  vague  regret  for  the  quaint, 
mythical  lore  which  cast  its  glamour  over 
the  wilderness;  for  the  poor,  vanished 
119 


TRAILS  THROUGH  WESTERN  WOODS 

phantoms  of  the  wood  and  the  gods  who 
have  fallen  from  their  thrones.  Some- 
times in  the  remotest  mountain  solitudes 
we  dare  to  acknowledge  thoughts  we 
would  not  harbour  elsewhere.  Under  the 
pensive  appeal  of  the  still  forests,  the 
heaven-reaching  peaks  and  stream-songs, 
we  wonder  if  upon  the  heights,  in  deep- 
bosomed  caverns,  those  sad  exiles  dwell, 
casting  over  the  cloistered  groves  a  subtle 
melancholy,  evasive  as  the  shadow  of  a 
cloud,  fleeting  as  the  sigh  of  the  Summer 
wind. 

But  the  good  fathers  of  St.  Mary's  had 
no  such  thought  for  the  ancient  paganism 
and  its  symbols.  They  were  busy  planting 
the  Cross,  building  a  chapel,  the  best  that 
their  strength  and  skill  could  erect,  and 
other  structures  necessary  for  their  pro- 
tection and  comfort.  It  was  a  labour  of 
love,  as  much  a  religious  rite  as  the  saying 
of  the  Mass,  and  verily,  the  ring  of  the 
hammers  must  have  seemed  in  the  ears  of 
those  devoted  men,  endless  aves  and  pater 
120 


SOME  INDIAN  MISSIONS 

nosters.  Finally  the  work  was  done.  A 
comfortable  log  cabin,  large  enough  to 
hold  nearly  the  assembled  tribe,  stood  in 
the  valley,  and  when  the  Indians  returned 
from  the  hunt,  they  were  joyful  in  this, 
their  reward,  for  all  those  brave  at- 
tempts to  bring  the  Light  into  the  Wil- 
derness. 

The  Mission  completed,  Father  De 
Smet  travelled  to  Fort  Colville  in  Wash- 
ington, a  journey  of  more  than  three  hun- 
dred miles,  to  procure  seeds  and  roots, 
and  on  his  way  he  stopped  among  the 
Kalispehlms,  the  Pend  d'Oreilles  and  the 
Coeur  d'Alenes,  all  of  whom  welcomed 
him  and  listened  attentively  to  the  mes- 
sage he  brought.  He  took  back  to  his 
Selish  charges  at  St.  Mary's  "a  few  bu- 
shels of  oats,  wheat  and  potatoes"  which 
he  and  his  brethren  sowed.  The  Indians, 
like  children,  watched  with  wonder,  the 
planting,  sprouting,  ripening  and  reaping 
of  the  crop,  a  thing  hitherto  unknown  to 
them,  though  husbandry  on  a  small  scale 


TRAILS  THROUGH  WESTERN  WOODS 

had  been  practiced  at  an  earlier  date  by 
some  of  the  Eastern  tribes. 

But  however  truly  the  Indians  loved 
their  new  teachers,  the  robes  noires,  and 
however  sincerely  they  accepted  the  tenets 
of  their  faith,  they  still  persisted  in  buf- 
falo hunts,  which  twice  a  year  took  them 
into  the  contested  country,  and  upon  these 
expeditions,  fired  with  excitement,  alive 
with  all  the  heritage  of  passion  inspired 
by  the  chase,  the  war  path  and  the  intoxi- 
cation of  glory  handed  down  to  them 
through  an  ancestry  so  ancient  as  to  be 
lost  in  the  dimness  of  beginnings,  they 
forgot  for  a  time,  at  least,  the  life  of 
order,  industry  and  religion  they  had 
pledged  themselves  to  lead.  Therefore, 
one  of  the  new  priests,  Father  Point,  ac- 
companied them  on  the  hunt,  but  in  the 
abandon  of  those  days  when  every  sense 
was  strained  to  find  the  prey,  and  every 
nerve  was  as  tense  as  the  bow-string  'ere 
it  speeds  the  arrow  to  its  mark,  it  was  im- 
possible  to   preach   to   them   the   gentle 

122 


SOME  INDIAN  MISSIONS 

word  of  Christianity,  so  the  Fathers  gave 
up  these  attempts  and  remained  at  the 
Mission  awaiting  the  return  of  their 
straying  converts,  a  situation  which  was 
to  result  sadly  for  St.  Mary's.  Meantime 
the  work  was  growing.  The  Pend 
d'Oreilles  and  Coeur  d'Alenes  had  asked 
for  missionary  priests  and  Father  De 
Smet  needed  more  helpers  in  the  new 
land. 

From  St.  Mary's,  the  Mother  Mission, 
Father  Point  and  Brother  Huet  went 
forth  to  minister  to  the  Coeur  d'Alenes, 
where  they  established  the  Mission  of  the 
Sacred  Heart.  A  third  Mission,  St.  Igna- 
tius, was  founded  amongst  the  Kalis- 
pehlms  on  the  Pend  d'Oreille  River. 
With  these  two  offshoots  from  the  parent 
stem  of  St.  Mary's,  it  was  necessary  for 
Father  De  Smet  to  seek  re-inforcement 
abroad,  but  before  he  sailed  he  started 
westward  three  new  recruits  from  St. 
Louis. 

It  must  have  been  an  inspiring  sight 
123 


TRAILS  THROUGH  WESTERN  WOODS 

when  this  humble  priest,  fresh  from  the 
western  woods,  the  scent  of  the  pines  ex- 
haling from  him,  the  breadth  of  vast  dis- 
tances in  his  vision,  the  simplicity  of  the 
Indians'  racial  childhood  reflected  in  his 
own  nature,  stood  before  his  August 
Holiness,  Pope  Gregory  XVI.,  in  the 
grandeur  of  the  Vatican  at  Rome,  and 
there,  amidst  the  pomp  and  ostentation, 
the  wealth  and  luxury  of  the  headwaters 
of  that  Church  which  sends  its  streams  to 
the  utmost  corners  of  the  earth,  pled  the 
cause  of  the  lowly  Indian.  More  impos- 
ing still,  it  must  have  been,  when  His 
Holiness  arose  from  his  throne  and  em- 
braced this  apostle  from  the  great,  New 
World.  The  Pope  sought  to  make  the 
priest  a  bishop,  but  Father  De  Smet  chose 
to  remain  as  he  was,  and  certainly  in  the 
eyes  of  unprejudiced  laymen,  he  gained 
in  simple  dignity  more  than  he  foreswore 
in  ecclesiastical  honors. 

This  trip  of  Father  De  Smet  to  Europe 
has  a  peculiar  interest  in  that  it  was  the 
124 


SOME  INDIAN  MISSIONS 

means  of  bringing  into  the  West,  besides 
numbers  of  pioneer  Sisters,  and  clergy,  a 
man  so  beloved,  so  revered  that  his  name 
— Father  Ravalli — is  known  by  Catholic 
and  Protestant,  Indian  and  White  alike, 
through  the  whole  of  the  Rocky  Moun- 
tain region.  Those  who  knew  the  gentle 
old  man  loved  him  not  only  for  his  spir- 
ituality, but  for  his  human  sweetness.  He 
possessed  that  breadth  of  sympathy  which 
sheds  mercy  on  good  and  bad  equally, 
commiserating  the  fallen,  pitying  the 
weak.  He  was  a  native  of  Ferrara,  Italy, 
and  at  a  very  early  age  decided  to  become 
a  missionary  priest.  That  he  might  be 
most  useful  materially  as  well  as  relig- 
iously, he  fitted  himself  for  his  work.  He 
graduated  in  belles  lettres,  philosophy, 
the  natural  sciences,  and  became  a  teach- 
er in  these  branches  of  learning,  in  sev- 
eral cities  of  Italy.  Under  a  skilled  phy- 
sician of  Rome  he  studied  medicine;  in  a 
mechanic's  shop  he  learned  the  use  of 
tools;  finally,  in  a  studio,  he  practiced  the 
125 


TRAILS  THROUGH  WESTERN  WOODS 

rudiments  of  art  which  he  always  loved. 
So  he  came  to  the  Indians  bringing  with 
him  great  human  kindliness,  and  the 
knowledge  of  crafts  and  homely  pursuits 
that  made  their  lives  more  easy  and  inde- 
pendent. It  was  he  who  devised  the  first 
crude  mill,  the  means  of  giving  the  peo- 
ple flour  and  bread,  he  who  by  a  hundred 
ingenious  devices  lightened  the  burden  of 
their  toil.  But  most  of  all  was  his  prac- 
tice of  medicine  a  mercy.  To  stricken  in- 
fancy or  old  age  he  was  alike  attentive; 
to  dying  Christians  he  bent  with  ready 
ear  and  alleviating  touch,  or  as  compas- 
sionately eased  the  last  throes  of  highway- 
men, heretic  or  murderer.  Over  the  bleak, 
snowy  passes  of  the  mountains,  heedless 
of  hardship  or  danger,  he  hurried  in  an- 
swer to  the  appeal  of  the  sick,  no  matter 
who  they  were  or  where  they  dwelt.  And 
though  often  those  whe  went  before  or 
came  after  him  were  robbed,  he  was  never 
molested.  The  most  desperate  of  the 
"road  agents"  respected  him  and  suffered 
126 


SOME  INDIAN  MISSIONS 

him  to  pass  in  peace  on  his  way.  Gently 
brave,  like  the  good  bishop  in  Les  Miser- 
ables,  his  very  trustfulness  was  his  safe- 
guard. Perhaps  as  striking  an  example 
of  his  forethought  as  we  can  find  is  the 
fact  that  he  trained  a  squaw  to  give  intel- 
ligent care  to  women  in  the  throes  of 
childbirth.  There  is  no  record  of  the 
mothers  and  babes  spared  thus,  but  there 
were  many^  and  even  the  letter  of  the 
monkish  law  never  stayed  his  helping 
hand  or  curbed  his  humane  devotion.  The 
more  ascetic  brethren  who  lived  in  colder 
spiritual  altitudes^  looked  doubtfully  up- 
on Father  Ravalli's  impartial  ministry; 
the  more  astute  financiers  who  held  the 
keys  to  the  Church's  cofifers,  frowned  up- 
on his  unrewarded  toil,  and  there  comes 
a  whisper  through  the  years  that  there 
were  times  when  he  was  an  object  of 
charity  because  he  never  asked  reward  for 
the  surcease  of  suffering  his  patient  vigils 
brought. 

He  travelled  from  one  to  another  of 
127 


TRAILS  THROUGH  WESTERN  WOODS 

the  Northwestern  missions  and  even  to 
Santa  Clara,  California,  but  he  is  known 
best  and  loved  most  as  the  Apostle  of  the 
Selish  at  St.  Mary's.  Indeed,  looking 
back  through  the  perspective  of  time  at 
the  plain,  little  Mission  crowned  as  with 
an  aureole,  one  figure  stands  out  clearly 
among  the  pious  priests,  who,  in  turn, 
presided  at  its  altar,  and  this  figure  is 
Father  Ravalli. 

His  grave,  marked  by  a  shaft  of  stone, 
is  within  the  shadow  of  the  church  in  the 
valley  of  the  Bitter  Root,  and  it  was  fit- 
ting he  should  lie  down  to  rest  where  he 
had  laboured  so  long  and  lovingly.  A 
generation  hence,  when  the  hallowed 
places  of  the  West  become  shrines  about 
which  pilgrims  shall  gather  reverently, 
this  mountain-tomb  of  the  gentle  old 
priest  will  be  visited  and  written  of. 
Meantime,  he  sleeps  as  sweetly  for  the 
solitude,  and  those  whose  lives  he  made 
more  beautiful  by  his  presence  think  of 
him  at  peace  as  they  turn  their  eyes  heav- 
128 


SOME  INDIAN  MISSIONS 

enward  to  the  infinite  rosary  of  the  stars. 
In  spite  of  the  progress  of  the  ben- 
eficent work  and  the  fresh  blood  that  had 
infused  new  strength  into  the  cause,  dark 
days  were  to  cast  their  shadow  upon  the 
little  Mission  of  St,  Mary's.  No  power 
could  restrain  the  Selish  from  the  chase, 
and  during  their  absence  twice  a  year,  the 
colony  left  behind,  consisting  only  of  the 
priest  and  those  too  aged  or  sick  to  follow 
the  tribe,  were  menaced  by  the  Blackfeet 
and  Bannock  Indians.  The  old  feud  was 
fanned  red  hot  by  the  Selish  killing  two 
Blackfeet  warriors  who  invaded  the  very 
boundaries  of  the  Mission  with  hostile  in- 
tent. The  threats  from  the  Blackfeet  be- 
came more  terrible.  They  lurked  in  the 
thick  timber  and  brush  around  the  stock- 
ade which  enclosed  the  Mission,  and,  fi- 
nally, while  the  tribe  was  absent  on  a  buf- 
falo hunt,  a  rumour  reached  the  anxious 
watchers  that  the  hostiles  would  descend 
in  a  great  war  party  upon  the  defenseless 
community.  And  indeed,  they  were 
129 


TRAILS  THROUGH  WESTERN  WOODS 

roused  by  war  whoop  and  savage  yell  to 
see  swarming  around  their  weak  barri- 
cade, the  dreaded  enemy.  Father  Ravalli 
was  in  charge  of  the  Mission  at  that  time 
and  he  and  his  companions  prepared 
themselves  for  the  death  which  seemed 
inevitable.  But  the  Blackfeet,  probably 
seeing  that  only  a  man  stricken  with 
years,  two  young  boys  and  a  few  aged 
women  and  little  children  were  all  of 
their  hated  foe  who  remained  at  St. 
Mary's,  retreated  to  the  brush.  One  of 
the  two  boys  ventured  to  the  gate  to  make 
sure  the  Blackfeet  were  gone  and  was  shot 
dead.  This  tragical  incident  and  the  more 
awful  menace  it  carried  with  it  to  those 
who  were  left  at  the  mercy  of  the  invad- 
ing tribes,  and  another  reason  we  shall 
now  consider,  led  to  the  temporary  aban- 
donment of  St.  Mary's. 

In  those  early  days,  the  missions  being 
the  only  habitations  within  many  hun- 
dreds of  miles,  became  the  refuge  and 
abiding  place  during  bitter  weather,  of 

130 


SOME  INDIAN  MISSIONS 

French-Canadian  and  mixed  breed  trap- 
pers, who  in  milder  seasons  ranged  over 
the  mountains  and  plains  in  pursuit  of 
furs.  These  half-savage  men  were  un- 
doubtedly a  picturesque  part  of  the  old, 
woodland  life  and  their  uncouth  figures 
lent  animation  and  colour  to  the  quiet 
monotone  of  the  religious  communities. 
In  the  first  quarter  of  the  last  century  we 
find  mention  of  French-Canadians  em- 
ployed by  the  Missouri  Fur  Company, 
appearing  on  New  Year's  Eve,  clad  in 
bison  robes,  painted  like  Indians,  dancing 
La  Gignolee  to  the  music  of  tinkling 
bells  fastened  to  their  dress,  for  gifts  of 
meat  and  drink.  These  trappers  were,  in 
the  day  of  St.  Mary's  Mission,  a  licentious, 
roistering  band  with  easy  morals,  con- 
sciences long  since  gone  to  sleep,  who  did 
not  hesitate  to  debauch  the  Indians,  and 
who  feared  neither  man  nor  devil.  They 
went  to  St.  Mary's  as  to  other  shrines,  and 
under  the  pretext  of  practicing  their  re- 
ligion, lived  on  the  missionaries'  scanty 

131 


TRAILS  THROUGH  WESTERN  WOODS 

Stores  and  filled  the  idle  hours  with  illicit 
pastimes.  It  is  said  that  they  became  re- 
vengeful because  of  the  coolness  of  their 
reception  by  the  priests,  and  maliciously 
set  about  to  poison  the  Selish  against  the 
beloved  robes  noires.  However  this  may 
be,  whether  the  wayward,  capricious 
children  strayed  or  not,  it  is  certain  that 
they  would  not  sacrifice  the  buffalo  hunt 
for  priest  nor  promise  of  salvation,  so  the 
Mission  was  dismantled  and  leased;  its 
poor  effects  packed  and  the  Apostles  of 
the  Faith  started  out  again  to  seek  refuge 
in  new  fields.  At  Hell's  Gate,  the  inferno 
of  the  Blackfeet,  they  parted;  Father  Ra- 
valli to  wend  his  way  to  the  Mission  of 
the  Sacred  Heart  among  the  Cceur 
d'Alenes;  the  rest,  under  the  escort  and 
protection  of  Victor,  the  Lodge  Pole, 
Great  Chief  of  the  Selish  and  father  of 
Chariot,  followed  the  Coriacan  defile  to 
the  Jocko  River  and  finally  arrived  at  St. 
Ignatius,  the  Mission  of  the  Kalispehlms. 
For  a  time  we  leave  St.  Mary's  in  the 
132 


SOME  INDIAN  MISSIONS 

sad  oblivion  of  desertion,  while  those  who 
had  tended  its  altar,  poor  pilgrims,  toiled 
over  diverse  trails  toward  different  desti- 
nations. 

It  is  not  necessary  to  follow  the  varying 
fortunes  of  the  few,  small  missions  in  the 
Northwestern  wilderness,  included  then 
within  the  vast  territory  called  Oregon. 
Each  has  its  pathetic  story  of  privation 
and  danger,  which  may  be  found  com- 
plete and  detailed  in  ecclesiastical  his- 
tories written  by  priests  of  the  order. 

We  shall  pass  on  to  the  Mission  of  St. 
Ignatius,  whither  the  party  from  St. 
Mary's  sought  refuge,  which,  in  the 
course  of  time  absorbed  some  of  the  les- 
ser institutions  and  became,  as  we  shall 
see,  the  religious  center  of  several  tribes. 
The  Mission  of  St.  Ignatius  was  the  same 
founded  by  Father  Point  on  the  banks  of 
the  Pend  d'Oreille  River  among  the 
Kalispehlms  in  the  year  1844.  The  origi- 
nal location  proved  undesirable,  so  ten 
years  later  the  Mission  was  moved  to  a 

133 


TRAILS  THROUGH  WESTERN  WOODS 

site  chosen  by  the  advice  of  Alexander, 
Chief  of  the  tribe.  A  wonderful  revela- 
tion it  must  have  been  when  the  Indian 
guide,  leading  the  priests  through  a  pass 
in  the  mountains,  the  secret  of  his  people, 
showed  them  the  vast  sea  of  flowing  green 
— the  valley  of  Sin-yal-min — barred  to 
the  East  by  the  range  of  the  same  name. 
There  ever-changing  shades  of  violet  and 
lights  of  gold  altered  the  mien  of  these 
mountains  whose  jagged  peaks  showed 
white  with  snow,  from  whose  deep 
bosoms  burst  a  water-fall  plunging  from 
mighty  altitudes  into  the  emerald  bowl 
of  the  valley.  This  was  veritably  a  king- 
dom in  itself,  and  no  white  man  had  trod- 
den the  thick  embroidery  of  wild  flowers 
and  grass.  It  had  been  a  gathering  place 
for  many  tribes.  Within  its  luxuriantly 
fruitful  limits,  berries  and  roots  grew  in 
plenty  and  game  abounded  in  the  neigh- 
bouring hills. 

In  the  very  palm  of  Sin-yal-min  the 
new  Mission  of  St.  Ignatius  was  builded. 

134 


SOME  INDIAN  MISSIONS 

There  could  scarcely  have  been  a  more 
ideal  spot  for  church  and  school,  forming 
the  nucleus  of  an  agricultural  community. 
There  gathered  parties  of  the  upper  and 
lower     Kalisphelms,    upper    Kootenais, 
Flat  Bowes,  Pend  d'Oreilles  and  Selish, 
to  pitch  their  tipis  in  the  shadow  of  the 
Mission  Cross.     Many  of  these  Indians 
made  for  themselves  little  farms  where 
they  laboured  and  lived.   Entire  families 
of  Selish  moved  from  the  Bitter  Root  val- 
ley to  be  near  the  robes  noires  they  loved. 
St.  Ignatius  possessed  an  advantage  that 
bound    the    Indians    to    it    by    perma- 
nent ties  and  that  was  its  schools.     Four 
pioneer  Sisters  travelling  into  the  Rocky 
Mountain  region  under  the  guidance  of 
two  priests  and  two  laymen,  from  their 
home  mission   in   Montreal,  founded  at 
St.  Ignatius  the  first  girls'  school  among 
the  Indians  of  the  territory.     Not  long 
thereafter  the  priests  established  a  simi- 
lar school  for  boys,  where  they  taught  not 
only  the  French  and  English  languages 

135 


TRAILS  THROUGH  WESTERN  WOODS 

and  the  rudiments  of  a  simple  education, 
but  also  such  handicrafts  as  seemed  most 
necessary  to  the  development  of  industry. 
In  saddle-making  particularly,  the  boys 
excelled,  and  wonderful  specimens  of 
leather  work  have  gone  forth  from  the 
Mission  shops.  Thus,  largely  through  its 
practical  industry  St.  Ignatius  grew  into 
a  powerful  institution.  Building  after 
building  was  added  to  the  group  until  a 
beautiful  village  sprang  up,  half  hidden 
among  clumps  of  trees  and  generous 
vines.  On  the  outskirts  of  this  community 
rows  of  tiny,  low,  thatch-roofed  log 
cabins  were  built  by  the  Indians  to  shelter 
them  when  they  assembled  to  celebrate 
such  feasts  as  Christmas,  Good  Friday 
and  that  of  St.  Ignatius,  their  patron 
Saint. 

The  fates  favoured  St.  Ignatius.  In  the 
year  of  its  removal  the  Hell's  Gate  treaty 
was  signed  wherein  the  bounds  of  the  res- 
ervation were  re-adjusted,  making  the 
new  mission  the  center  of  that  rich  do- 
136 


SOME  INDIAN  MISSIONS 

minion.  The  treaty  of  the  Hell  Gate, 
participated  in  by  the  Selish,  the  Pend 
d'Oreilles  and  some  of  the  Kootenais,  was 
the  same,  it  may  be  remembered,  wherein 
Victor,  the  father  of  Chariot,  insisted  up- 
on retaining  possession  of  the  Bitter  Root 
Valley  ''above  the  LoLo  Fork"  for  him- 
self and  his  people,  unless  after  a  fair  sur- 
vey by  the  United  States,  the  President 
should  deem  it  best  to  move  the  tribe  to 
the  Jocko.  This  agreement  was  entered 
into  in  1855.  Seventeen  years  went  by. 
The  Indians  declare  that  no  survey  was 
ever  made  during  that  time  nor  were  they 
furnished  with  school  teachers,  skilled  ar- 
tisans and  agriculturalists  to  instruct 
them,  as  had  been  promised  on  the  part  of 
the  government.  Summarily  the  Selish 
were  called  upon  to  sign  a  second  agree- 
ment, the  Garfield  treaty,  which  deprived 
them  of  their  ancestral  home  and  drove 
them  forth  to  share  the  Jocko  Reservation 
in  common  with  the  allied  tribes.  This 
was  at  once  an  impetus  to  the  fortunes  of 

137 


TRAILS  THROUGH  WESTERN  WOODS 

St.  Ignatius  and  a  mortal  blow  to  St. 
Mary's. 

That  pioneer  shrine,  abandoned  on  ac- 
count of  the  depredations  of  the  Black- 
feet,  remained  dark  and  silent  for  sixteen 
years.  The  Selish  mourned  the  loss  of 
their  friends  and  teachers,  the  robes 
noires.  In  spite  of  the  absence  of  the 
church's  influence,  save  such  intermittent 
inspiration  as  the  occasional  visit  of  a 
priest,  the  Selish  prayed  and  waited.  And 
surely,  poor,  impulsive  children  that  they 
were,  if  they  had  been  misled  by  tale- 
bearing, mixed  breed  trappers,  their  di- 
gression was  dearly  expiated.  During 
those  sixteen  years  they  remained  faithful 
to  the  cause  which  four  delegations  of 
their  number  had  braved  danger,  priva- 
tion and  death  to  win. 

In  the  meantime  the  West  was  chang- 
ing. The  first  stern,  ascetic  days  were 
passing  when  the  best  of  men's  characters 
was  called  into  active  existence  to  cope 
with    immediate   hardship;   when   every 

138 


SOME  INDIAN  MISSI0:TS 

nerve  rang  true,  tuned  to  the  highest  bra- 
very and  that  magnificent  indifference  to 
death  which  makes  heroes.  The  cry  of 
gold  ran  through  the  length  and  breadth 
of  the  land  and  the  headlong  rush  of  ad- 
venturers, good  and  bad,  from  the  four 
corners  of  the  earth,  all  bent  on  wealth, 
changed  the  spirit  of  the  western  world. 
In  that  mad  st?mpede,  men,  spurred  by 
the  lust  of  ga^xi,  pushed  and  crowded  each 
other,  and  with  such  competition,  who 
thought  of  or  cared  for  the  Indian?  His 
day  was  done;  the  accomplishment  of  his 
ruin  was  merely  a  matter  of  years.  More- 
over, the  lower  element  of  the  reckle<'«?, 
pillaging  crew  of  gold  seekers  brought 
with  it  the  vices  of  civilization — drink 
and  the  game. 

Change  the  ideal  which  inspires  a  deed 
and  the  deed  itself  is  changed.  That 
first,  stern  West  which  taught  men  not  to 
fear  by  surrounding  them  with  danger, 
made  heroes  of  them  because  they  had 
braved  the  unknown  for  some  noble  pur- 

139 


TRAILS  THROUGH  WESTERN  WOODS 

pose,  religion,  the  simple  love  of  Nature 
or  another  reason  as  good;  but  in  these  al- 
tered conditions  where  debauching  gain 
was  the  one  object  of  their  quest,  though 
they  spurned  death  as  the  pathfinders  had 
done,  their  bravery  sank  to  bravado  and 
dare-deviltry  because  their  purpose  was 
sordid. 

With  this  invasion  of  the  wilderness  the 
whole  aspect  of  the  mission  work  under- 
went a  change.  The  masked  man  on 
horseback  stalked  the  trails;  the  bizarre 
glamour  of  the  dance  hall  flaunted  its 
coarse  gaiety  in  the  mushroom  camps' 
thronged  streets;  the  saloon  and  gaming 
house  brought  temptation  to  the  Indian, 
and  generally  he  fell.  It  was  also  true 
that  in  more  than  one  instance  the  prece- 
dent of  bloodshed  was  set  by  brigand 
whites,  sowing  the  seeds  which  were  later 
to  bear  a  red  harvest  of  war. 

So,  when  St.  Mary's  opened  her  doors 
in  1869,  it  was  upon  a  period  of  transition. 
If  the  placid  image  of  Our  Lady,  looking 


SOME   INDIAN  MISSIONS 

through  half  closed  eyelids,  could  have 
seen  and  understood  the  metamorphosis 
what  a  shock  would  have  smitten  her 
sainted  soul!  The  painted,  war-bent 
Blackfeet  were  gone  far  back  into  their 
fastnesses,  but  here  and  there,  thick  and 
fast,  came  the  white  settler,  peaceful, 
cold,  inevitable,  overwhelming,  bringing 
ruin  to  the  old  life  and  its  people — the  be- 
ginning of  the  end.  And  that  calm,  just 
Mother  of  Mankind  would  have  seen  the 
timid  shadow-shapes  of  the  Selish  melt- 
ing into  the  gathering  twilight,  at  once 
welcoming  the  stranger  to  the  land  and 
relinquishing  it  to  him,  retiring  step  by 
step  before  the  great,  white  inundation. 
It  is  useless  to  prolong  the  story.  The  cli- 
max had  to  come,  and  come  it  did,  swift- 
ly, cruelly,  with  a  dark  hint  of  treachery 
that  we,  of  the  superior  race  are  too  will- 
ing to  excuse  and  condone.  By  the  Gar- 
field Treaty,  which,  by  a  curious  anom- 
aly, never  very  lucidly  explained,  bears 
the  sign  of  Chariot,  son  of  Victor,  heredi- 
141 


TRAILS  THROUGH  WESTERN  WOODS 

tary  chief  of  the  Selish^  that  he,  a  man  in 
his  sane  senses  swears  he  never  signed, 
the  tribe  renounced  all  claim  to  the  land 
of  their  fathers  and  consented  to  betake 
themselves  to  the  Jocko  reservation.  Dur- 
ing the  twenty-two  years  of  the  existence 
of  St.  Mary's  as  an  Indian  Mission,  after 
its  second   opening,    the   fathers,    among 
them  Father  Ravalli,  watched  over  and 
tended  their  decreasing  charge.  The  num- 
bers of  the  red  hosts  dwindled;  the  falling 
ofif  of  the  people  through  new  and  unnat- 
ural conditions  thinned  their  ranks,  but 
surer  still,  was  the  admixture  of  the  white 
strain,  so  corrupting  in  most  cases  to  the 
unfortunate  in  whom  the  two  race  strains 
commingle.    But  in  spite  of  the  Garfield 
Treaty,  notwithstanding  the  exodus  of  the 
main  body  of  the  Selish,  St.  Mary's  faith- 
ful to  the  end,  drew  to  her  little  altar  the 
last,  failing  remnant    of    the    tribe — the 
splendidly  defiant  Chariot  and  his  band. 
At  last,  in  1891,  they  accepted  the  inevit- 
able and  rode  away  to  the  land  of  their 
142 


SOME  INDIAN   MISSIONS 

exile  resigning  to  the  conquering  race 
their  blood-right  to  the  Bitter  Root.  This 
was  the  death  of  St.  Mary's.  It  remained 
standing,  a  church  of  the  whites,  but  an 
Indian  mission  no  more.  In  looking  back 
through  the  years,  their  mercies  and  their 
cruelties,  it  is  a  sorrowfully  sweet  thing 
to  remember  that  Father  Ravalli,  guar- 
dian spirit  of  the  Selish,  lay  down  to  rest 
before  the  ultimate  change,  the  final  ex- 
pulsion, while  the  first  light  of  the  wil- 
derness from  the  altar  of  St.  Mary's  still 
shone,  however  faintly,  to  show  the  way. 

The  sequel  of  St.  Ignatius  is,  happily, 
less  pathetic  in  its  unfolding.  The  life 
that  ebbed  from  St.  Mary's  flowed  amply 
into  the  newer  Mission's  growing 
strength  and  to-day  it  stands,  substantial 
and  prosperous  in  the  valley  of  Sin-yal- 
min.  Though  the  same  tragedy  is  about 
to  be  enacted,  the  expulsion,  less  sum- 
mary, leaving  to  the  individual  Indian  his 
garden  patch,  St.  Ignatius  remains  a  bea- 
con to  the  dusky  hosts,   poor  frightened 

143 


TRAILS  THROUGH  WESTERN  WOODS 

children  who  cling  to  this  last  hope, 
promising  as  it  does  a  happiness  born  of 
suffering,  an  ultimate  reward  which  not 
even  the  white  man  can  take  away.  A 
handsome  new  church,  frescoed  by  an 
Italian  brother,  does  service  instead  of 
the  old  chapel,  venerable  with  age  that 
hides  behind  the  sheltering  trees.  In 
front  of  the  modern  church  stands  the 
great,  wooden  Cross  erected  by  the  early 
fathers,  which  the  Indians  kneel  to  kiss 
before  they  go  to  Mass.  And  to  the- right, 
covered  with  wild  grass,  and  that  neglect 
of  which  such  vagrant  growths  are  the 
emblem,  is  the  old  cemetery  where  so 
many  weary  pilgrims  who  travelled  long 
and  painfully  over  difficult  trails,  have 
sought  peace  past  the  power  of  dreams  to 
disturb. 

Here,  as  we  have  seen,  upon  feast  days 
the  Indians  come,  the  scattered  bands 
gathering  from  mountain  and  valley,  clad 
in  gala  attire.  Their  ranks  are  thinning 
fast.  The  once  populous  nation  of  the 
144 


SOME  INDIAN  MISSIONS 

Selish  is  shrunk  to  between  three  and  four 
hundred  souls^  still  the  little  village  often 
holds  a  thousand  Indians  all  told,  from 
the  different  neighbouring  tribes.  And 
sometimes,  bands  from  far  away,  distin- 
guished by  diversified  language,  curious 
basketry  and  articles  of  handicraft,  come 
as  spectators  to  the  feasts. 

Until  a  few  years  ago  these  religious 
festivals  were  preceded  by  solemn  rites 
of  expiation.  A  kind  of  open  air  court 
was  held,  the  chiefs  sitting  in  judgment 
upon  all  offenders  and  acting  in  the  ca- 
pacity of  judges.  The  whole  tribe  assem- 
bled to  watch  with  impassive  gravity  the 
austere  spectacle  of  the  accusation,  sen- 
tence and  chastisement  of  those  who  had 
broken  the  law.  All  malefactors  were  ei- 
ther brought  before  the  chiefs,  or  spurred 
by  conscience,  they  came  forward  volun- 
tarily, confessed  their  guilt  and  prayed  to 
be  expurgated  of  sin  through  the  sting  of 
the  lash.  When  the  accusations  and  con- 
fessions   were    finished,    the    multitude 

145 


TRAILS  THROUGH  WESTERN  WOODS 

dropped  upon  their  knees  and  prayed. 
Then  those  arraigned  were  examined  and 
such  of  them  as  the  chiefs  decreed  guilty, 
were  sentenced  and  immediately  suffered 
the  penalty.  A  blanket  was  spread  upon 
the  earth  and  the  offender  lay  on  this,  his 
back  exposed  to  the  raw-hide  lash  which 
marked  in  welt-raising  strokes  the  degree 
of  his  transgression.  Even  while  he  smart- 
ed, never  wincing  under  this  ordeal,  the 
spectators  at  the  bidding  of  the  chiefs, 
prayed  once  again  for  the  culprit's  re- 
formation and  forgiveness.  Such  was  the 
practice  of  the  Selish  handed  down  from 
the  earliest  days.  The  time  and  place  of 
the  chastisement  were  regulated  in  these 
later  years  by  the  Catholic  festivals,  but 
public  punishment  with  the  lash  was  a 
custom  of  the  tribe  before  the  mission- 
aries penetrated  the  West.  The  confession, 
the  judgment  and  the  whipping  they  be- 
lieved to  be  a  complete  expiation;  having 
sufifered,  the  sin-soiled  were  made  clean, 
and  thus  purified,  they  met  and  mingled 
146 


I 


SOME  INDIAN   MISSIONS 

with  the  best  of  their  brethren  on  equal 
terms,  without  further  reproach.  This 
was  a  simple  and  summary  form  of  jus- 
tice, suited  to  the  people  whom  it  con- 
trolled,— was  in  fact  the  natural  out- 
growth of  their  moral  and  ethical  code — 
and  it  is  a  pity  that  the  ancient  law,  to- 
gether with  much  besides  that  was  de- 
sirable in  the  pristine  life  of  the  Indian, 
has  been  stamped  out  beneath  the  master's 
iron  heel. 

One  cannot  take  leave  of  the  missions 
of  the  Northwest  without  looking  back 
upon  Father  De  Smet,  their  founder,  and 
the  work  which  he  began.  Through  his 
devotion  missions  were  established 
among  many  different  nations,  even  the 
unyielding  Blackfeet  falling  under  the 
spell  of  gentleness.  And  he  who  lived 
most  of  his  life  either  in  the  wilderness 
or  labouring  elsewhere  for  what  he  be- 
lieved to  be  the  salvation  of  its  benighted 
children,  died  at  last  at  St.  Louis  in  1873, 
after   meditative   and   reminiscent  years 

147 


TRAILS  THROUGH  WESTERN  WOODS 

spent  in  recording  his  travels  and  his 
triumphs. 

There  are  some  subtle  questions  crying 
out  of  the  silence  which  are  not  to  be 
pushed  back  unspoken,  even  though  we 
can  find  no  answer  to  their  riddle.  How 
far  have  the  missionaries  succeeded?  If 
completely,  why  does  the  Christian 
Indian  still  dance  to  the  Sun?  And  did 
those  Fathers  in  their  errand  of  mercy 
blindly  pass  to  the  people  they  would 
fain  have  saved  from  annihilation  the  fate 
they  strove  to  spare  them  from?  Who  can 
say? 

The  Indians  were  probably  in  their 
racial  infancy  when  the  maturer  ranks 
marched  in  and  absorbed,  or  otherwise 
destroyed  them.  It  would  seem  that  with 
them  it  is  a  case  of  arrested  development. 
If  left  to  themselves,  through  centuries 
they  might  have  brought  forth  a  civiliza- 
tion diametrically  opposite  to  our  own. 
That  they  never  could  nor  can  assimilate 
or  profit  by  our  social  and  educational 
148 


SOME  INDIAN  MISSIONS 

methods  has  been  sufficiently  proved. 
Their  race  instincts  are  essentially  as 
foreign  to  ours  as  those  of  the  Hindu,  and 
their  evolution  must  have  necessarily  pro- 
ceeded along  totally  different  lines.  The 
Indians  were  decreed  to  work  out  their 
own  salvation  or  die,  and  the  latter  thing 
has  come  to  pass.  One  might  go  on  paint- 
ing mental  pictures  of  what  would  have 
been  the  result  if  the  free,  forest-born  red 
race  had  thrived  and  grown  into  maturity. 
Certainly  in  their  decadence,  their  spirit- 
broken  second  childhood,  we  find  the 
germ  of  an  original  moral  sense,  of  tra- 
dition and  poetry,  even  of  religion,  which 
might  have  borne  rich  fruit. 

The  Oriental  is  to  us  an  enigma,  and 
we  recognize  in  his  makeup  psychic  qual- 
ities but  slightly  hinted  of  in  ourselves. 
So  in  the  Indian  we  must  acknowledge  a 
race  of  distinct  and  separate  values  that 
we  can  never  wholly  know  or  understand. 
The  races  are  products  of  countless  cen- 
turies begotten  of  habit  and  environment; 
149 


TRAILS  THROUGH  WESTERN  WOODS 

we  cannot  put  aside  these  growth-accu- 
mulations builded  like  the  rings  of  the 
pine,  nor  can  we  take  that  which  the 
Creator  made  and  re-create  it  to  suit  our 
finite  ends.  Therefore,  instead  of  help- 
ing the  Indian  we  are  merely  killing  him, 
kindly  perhaps,  with  comforts,  colleges 
and  sacraments,  but  none  the  less  surely 
striking  at  his  life. 

And  though  they  are  still  amongst  us, 
picturesque  figures  which  we  value 
chiefly  as  relics  of  a  gaily-coloured  past, 
the  Indians  are  the  mystery  of  our  conti- 
nent. They  speak  to  us,  they  smile  at  us, 
they  sit  within  our  churches  and  use  our 
tongue,  but  for  all  that  they  remain  for- 
ever strangers.  What  pagan  beliefs  vi- 
brating through  the  chain  of  unrecorded 
ancestry,  what  hates,  loves,  aspirations 
and  bitter  griefs,  separate  from  our  com- 
prehension as  the  poles,  thrill  out  of  the 
darkness  of  yesterday  and  die  unspoken, 
unformed,  beneath  those  calm,  bronze 
brows?  They  are  a  problem  to  be  studied, 
150 


SOME  INDIAN   MISSIONS 

never  solved;  a  riddle  one  with  the 
Sphinx,  the  Cliff  Dwellers  and  the  Aztec 
ruins.  For,  after  all  is  said,  what  do  even 
the  good  Fathers,  with  candle,  crucifix 
and  creed,  know  of  their  primal  souls,  of 
the  unsounded  depths  of  their  hearts? 


151 


THE  PEOPLE  OF  THE  LEAVES 


RANCOIS 


CHAPTER  V 

THE  PEOPLE  OF  THE  LEAVES 

AMONG  the  early  Canadian  French 
the  Sioux  were  known  as  the  Gens 
des  Feuilles,  or  People  of  the 
Leaves.  This  poetical  title  seems  very 
obscure  in  its  meaning,  at  first,  but  it  may 
have  originated  in  a  legend  of  the  Crea- 
tion which  is  as  follows : 

In  the  ultimate  Beginning,  the  Great 
Spirit  made  the  world.  Under  his  potent, 
life-giving  heat  the  seeds  within  the  soil 
burst  into  bloom  and  the  earth  was  peo- 
pled with  trees — trees  of  many  kinds  and 
forms,  the  regal  pine  and  cedar  in  ever- 
green beauty  and  the  other  hosts  whose 
leaves  bud  with  the  Spring,  change  with 
the  Autumn  and  die  with  the  Winter's 
snow.  These  trees  were  all  possessed  of 
souls  and  some  of  them  yearned  to  be  free. 

155 


TRAILS  THROUGH  WESTERN  WOODS 

The  Great  Spirit,  from  his  throne  in  the 
blue  skies,  penetrating  the  slightest 
shadow  of  a  leaf,  divining  the  least  un- 
folding of  a  bud  with  his  all-seeing, 
omnipotently  sensitive  beams  radiating 
like  nerves  from  his  golden  heart,  per- 
ceived the  sorrow  of  the  sighing  forests 
and  mourned  with  tears  of  rain  at  their 
discontent.  Then  he  knew  that  a  world 
of  trees,  however  beautiful,  was  not  com- 
plete and  he  loosed  the  souls  from  their 
prisons  of  bark  and  limb  and  re-created 
them  in  the  form  of  Indians,  who  lived  in 
the  shelter  of  the  woods,  knit  to  them  by 
the  eternal  kinship  of  primal  soul-source 
— verily  the  People  of  the  Leaves. 

It  is  not  strange  that  among  a  nation 
which  adored  the  sun,  the  chief  ceremony 
should  have  been  the  Sun  Dance,  at 
once  a  propitiatory  offering  to  the  Great 
Spirit  and  a  public  test  of  metal  before  a 
young  man  could  become  a  brave.  The 
custom  was  an  ancient  one,  as  ancient, 

156 


THE  PEOPLE  OF  THE  LEAVES 

perhaps,  as  the  legend  of  the  leaves,  and 
in  the  accounts  of  the  earliest  explorers 
and  missionaries  we  read  of  this  dance  to 
the  sun;  of  the  physical  heroism  which 
was  the  fruit  of  the  torture  and  filled  the 
ranks  of  soldiery  with  men  Spartan  in  fine 
scorn  of  pain  and  contempt  of  death.  It 
is  interesting  to  trace  similar  practices  in 
races  widely  separate  in  origin,  habits 
and  beliefs,  and  it  seems  curious  that  this 
rite  of  initiation  into  the  honourable  host 
of  the  braves,  however  dissimilar  in  outer 
form,  was  not  totally  unlike  in  spirit  the 
test  of  knighthood  for  the  hallowed  circle 
of  the  Table  Round. 

The  festival  of  the  Sun  Dance  was  cele- 
brated every  year  in  the  month  of  July, 
when  the  omnipotent  orb  reached  his 
greatest  strength,  is,  indeed,  still  cele- 
brated, but  without  the  torture  which  was 
its  reason  for  being.  A  pole  was  driven 
deep  and  solid  in  the  ground  and  from 
the  top,  somewhat  after  the  manner  of  a 
May-pole,  long,  stout  thongs  depended. 

157 


TRAILS  THROUGH  WESTERN  WOODS 

After  incantations  by  the  Medicine  Men, 
the  youths  desiring  to  distinguish  them- 
selves came  forward  in  the  presence  of 
the  assembled  multitude,  to  receive  the 
torture  w^hich  should  condemn  them  as 
squaw  men  or  entitle  them  to  fold  their 
blankets  as  braves. 

With  a  scalping  knife  the  skin  was  slit 
over  each  breast  and  raised  so  a  thong 
from  the  pole  could  pass  beneath  and  be 
fastened  to  the  strip  of  flesh.  When  all 
were  bound  thus,  the  dance  began  to  the 
time  of  a  tom-tom  and  the  chant.  Goaded 
by  pride  into  a  kind  of  frenzy  the 
novices  danced  faster,  more  wildly,  leap- 
ing higher,  bending  lower,  until  they 
tore  the  cords  loose  from  their  bleeding 
bosoms  and  were  free.  If,  during  the  or- 
deal, one  fainted  or  yielded  in  any  way  to 
the  agony,  he  was  disgraced  before  his 
tribe,  cast  out  as  a  white-hearted  squaw 
man  until  the  next  year's  festival,  when 
he  might  try  to  wipe  out  the  stain  and 
enter  the  band  of  the  brave.     If,  on  the 

158 


THE  PEOPLE  OF  THE  LEAVES 

Other  hand,  all  the  young  men  bore  the 
torture  without  flinching,  their  spirits  ris- 
ing superior  to  all  bodily  pain,  they  were 
received  as  warriors  and  earned  the  right 
to  wear  the  medicine  bag.  Often  one  of 
greater  puissance  than  his  fellows  wished 
further  to  distinguish  himself  by  a  test 
extraordinary  and  submitted  to  a  second 
torture  more  heroic  than  the  first.  He 
suffered  the  skin  over  his  shoulder  blades 
to  be  slit  as  his  breast  had  been  and 
through  these  gashes  thongs  were  drawn 
and  fastened  as  before,  but  this  time  the 
ends  were  attached  to  a  sacred  bison's 
skull,  kept  for  the  purpose,  which  the 
brave  dragged  over  rough,  rocky  ground 
and  through  underbrush,  until  his 
strained  flesh  gave  way  and  freed  him  of 
his  burden.  This  feat  entitled  him  to  ad- 
ditional honors  and  he  was  respected  and 
held  worthy  by  the  great  men  of  the 
tribe. 

After  the  torture,  when  a  youth  was 
declared  a  brave  he  retired  to  the  wilder- 


TRAILS  THROUGH  WESTERN  WOODS 

ness,  there  in  solitude  to  await  the  mes- 
sage of  the  Great  Spirit  which  would  re- 
veal to  him  his  medicine,  or  charm. 

This  "making  medicine"  as  it  was 
called,  was  a  rite  of  most  solemn  sacred- 
ness  and  secrecy  and  therefore  shrouded 
in  mystery.  From  the  lips  of  one  who,  in 
days  past,  when  the  ancient  customs  were 
rigidly  preserved,  followed  and  watched 
a  newly  made  brave,  the  ensuing  narra- 
tive was  gleaned. 

After  dark  the  young  Indian  took  his 
way  cautiously  far  off  into  silent,  unpeo- 
pled places  where  sharp  escarpments  cut 
like  cameos  against  the  sky.  There,  poised 
upon  the  cliffs,  his  slim  figure  silhouetted 
against  the  moonlit  clouds,  he  remained 
rigid  as  a  statue  through  long  hours,  wait- 
ing for  the  Voice  from  Above  by  whose 
revelation  he  should  learn  wherein  his 
power  lay.  Then  lifting  his  arms  towards 
the  heavens  he  made  strange  signs  to  the 
watchful  stars.  So  he  remained  'till 
dawn  paled  from  the  East,  when,  having 
1 60 


THE  PEOPLE  OF  THE  LEAVES 

received  his  message,  he  went  forth  to 
seek  the  animal  which  should  hereafter 
be  his  manitou,  or  guardian  spirit.  Some- 
times it  was  the  bison,  the  elk,  the  beaver, 
the  weasel  or  other  beast  of  his  native 
wild.  Into  his  bag  he  put  a  tooth  or  claw 
and  some  fur  of  the  chosen  creature,  with 
herbs  which  might  be  propitious.  Such 
was  his  charm,  his  medicine-bag,  the 
source  of  his  valour  and  safety,  to  be 
worn  sleeping  and  waking,  in  peace  and 
in  war;  to  be  guarded  with  his  life  and  to 
go  with  him  in  death  back  to  the  Great 
Spirit  by  whom  it  was  ordained. 

If  a  warrior  lost  his  medicine-bag  in 
battle,  he  became  an  outcast  among  his 
people  and  his  disgrace  was  not  to  be 
wiped  out  until  he  slew  and  took  from  an 
enemy's  body  the  medicine-bag  which  re- 
placed his  own  and  thus  retrieved  his 
honour. 

Of  all  the  quaint  ceremonies  connected 
with    the    old  wood-worship    and    sun- 
worship,  combining  the  idea  of  Begin- 
i6i 


TRAILS  THROUGH  WESTERN  WOODS 

ning  and  End,  of  p re-existence  and  after- 
existence,  none  are  more  interesting  than 
the  rites  attending  the  burial  of  the  dead. 
As  the  Indians  sprang  from  the  forest 
trees,  according  to  the  myth  of  the  leaves, 
lived  in  the  shadow  of  the  pleasant  woods, 
so  at  last,  they  were  received  into  the 
strong,  embracing  branches  that  tossed 
over  them  in  wild  gestures  when  the 
Great  Spirit  spoke  in  anger  from  the  sky; 
that  tempered  the  Summer's  heat  into 
cooling  shadow  for  their  repose;  that 
shed  their  gift  of  crimson  leaves  upon  the 
Indians'  devoted  heads  even  as  they, 
themselves,  must  shed  the  garb  of  flesh 
before  the  blast  of  death.  Or,  sometimes, 
the  dead  were  exalted  upon  a  naked  rock, 
rising  above  earth's  levels  toward  the  sun. 
Wherever  his  resting  place  might  be,  the 
dead  man  sat  upright,  if  a  brave,  dressed 
in  his  full  war  regalia,  surrounded  by  his 
most  prized  possessions  and  if  he  owned 
a  horse,  it  was  shot  so  its  shade  might  bear 
his  spirit  on  the  long,  dark,  devious  way 
162 


I 


THE  PEOPLE  OF  THE  LEAVES 

to  the  Happy  Hunting  Ground.  No 
mournful  ghost  who  met  his  death  in 
darkness  could  ever  bask  in  the  celestial 
light  of  endless  Summer-time;  he  was 
doomed  to  become  a  phantom  living  in 
perpetual  night.  That  is  the  reason  none 
but  forced  battles  were  fought  after 
dark;  the  bravest  of  the  braves  feared  the 
curse  of  everlasting  shadow.  They  be- 
lieved, too,  that  no  warrior  who  lost  his 
scalp  could  enter  the  fields  of  the  glori- 
ous; hence  the  taking  of  an  enemy's  scalp 
at  once  killed  and  damned  him.  The  sui- 
cide was  likewise  barred  from  Paradise. 

Years  ago,  when  the  feuds  of  the  hos- 
tile tribes  still  broke  into  the  red  ven- 
geance of  the  war-path,  the  Sioux  and 
Cheyennes  did  battle  with  the  Gros 
Ventres  at  Squaw  Butte,  and  by  some  mis- 
chance a  medicine  man  of  the  Sioux,  not 
engaged  in  the  combat,  whose  general- 
ship lay  in  marshalling  the  manitous  to 
the  aid  of  his  people,  was  killed.  A  trav- 
163 


TRAILS  THROUGH  WESTERN  WOODS 

eller,  journeying  alone  in  the  mountains, 
found  him  high  upon  a  cliff  with  his 
blanket  and  war  dress  tumbling  about  his 
bleaching  bones,  his  medicine-bag  and  all 
the  emblems  of  his  magic  preserved  in- 
tact. In  the  bag  was  a  grizzly  bear's  claw, 
an  elk's  tooth,  and  among  other  trinkets, 
a  small,  smooth  brass  button  of  the  kind 
worn  by  the  rivermen  trading  up  and 
down  the  Missouri  River  between  the 
East  and  the  savage  West.  It  would  be 
interesting  to  trace  the  migrations  and 
transfiguration  of  that  little  button  from 
its  existence  as  an  humble  article  of  dress 
to  the  dignity  of  a  charm  in  the  medicine- 
bag  of  the  old  magician  on  that  isolated 
cliff.  And  the  Master  of  Magic  him- 
self; he  of  prophetic  powers  and  know- 
ledge born  of  intercourse  with  the  gods; 
there  he  sat,  an  arrow  through  his  skull, 
his  blind,  eyeless  sockets  uplifted  to  the 
sun,  his  necromancy  unavailing,  his  wis- 
dom but  a  dream!  In  that  remote  home 
which  his  devoted  tribesmen  chose  for 
164 


THE  PEOPLE  OF  THE  LEAVES 

him,  no  irreverent  hand  had  disturbed  his 
watch,  and  he  is  probably  still  sitting,  sit- 
ting with  blind  eyes  toward  the  sun  while 
eagles  circle  overhead  and  gray  wolves 
howl  to  the  moon.  The  years  pass  on  un- 
heeded, the  face  of  the  land  has  changed, 
is  changing,  will  change,  and  the  rustling, 
swirling  leaves  of  Autumn  fall  thick  and 
fast.  Mayhap,  after  all,  the  old  Magic 
Master,  keeping  his  eternal  vigil,  may  see 
from  beyond  the  flesh  the  thinning  woods 
and  the  dead  leaves  dropping  from  the 
trees;  hear  their  weary  rustle — poor 
ghosts,  as  they  flutter  before  the  wintry 
wind.  And  among  the  lessening  trees, 
also  driven  by  the  Northern  blast,  does 
he  see  also,  a  gaunt  and  silent  troop  of 
phantoms — mere  Autumn  leaves — whirl- 
ing away  before  the  Storm? 


165 


THE  PASSING  BUFFALO 


CHAPTER  VI 
THE  PASSING  BUFFALO 


IT  was  summertime  in  the  mountains 
— that  short,  passionate  burst  of 
warm  life  between  the  long  seasons 
of  the  snow.  The  world  lay  panting  in 
the  white  light  of  the  sun,  over  gorge  and 
pine-clad  hill  floated  streamers  of  haze, 
and  along  the  ground  slanted  thin,  blue 
shadows.  The  sky  pulsed  in  ether  waves 
and  the  distant  peaks,  azure  also,  with 
traceries  of  silver,  were  as  dim  as  the 
memory  of  a  dream.  In  this  untrodden 
wilderness  the  passing  years  have  left  no 
record  save  in  the  gradual  growth  of  for- 
est trees,  and  in  its  rugged  beauty  it  is  the 
same  as  a  century  ago.  Therefore  time 
itself  seems  arrested,  and  it  is  scarcely 
strange  to  come  upon  a  buffalo  skull 
169 


TRAILS  THROUGH  WESTERN  WOODS 

naked  and  bleached  by  sun  and  rain,  and 
close  by,  half  hidden  in  the  loose  rocks, 
an  arrow  head  of  pure,  black  obsidian. 

This,  then,  was  once  the  scene  of  a 
brave  chase  when  wind-swift  Indians  pur- 
sued mad,  hurtling  herds  over  mountain 
slope  and  plain.  These  empty  fastnesses 
thrilled  to  the  shock  of  thousands  of  beat- 
ing hoofs,  these  hills  flung  back  the  echo 
to  the  brooding  silence  as  the  black  tide 
flowed  on,  pressed  by  deadly  huntsmen 
armed  with  barb  and  bow.  And  even  then, 
far  over  the  horizon,  unseen  by  hunted 
and  hunters,  silent  as  the  shadow  of  a 
cloud,  inevitable  as  destiny,  came  the 
White  Race,  moving  swifter  than  either 
one,  driving  them  unawares  toward  the 
great  abyss  where  they  should  vanish  for- 
ever into  the  Happy  Hunting  Ground, 
lighted  by  perpetual  Summer  and  peo- 
pled by  immortal  herds  and  tribes. 


170 


THE  PASSING  BUFFALO 
II 

In  such  a  remote  and  deserted  place  as 
this,  no  great  effort  of  the  imagination  is 
needed  to  call  up  the  shades  of  those  who 
once  inhabited  it,  to  react  their  part  in  the 
tragedy  of  progress.  Let  us  fancy  that 
a  riper,  richer  glow  is  upon  the  moun- 
tains, that  the  white  light  of  the  sun  has 
deepened  into  an  amber  flood  which  quiv- 
ers between  the  arch  of  lapis-lazuli  sky 
and  the  warm,  balsam-scented  earth  that 
sighs  forth  the  life  of  the  woods.  Al- 
ready the  trees  not  of  the  evergreen  kind 
are  hung  with  bewilderingly  gorgeous 
leaves  of  scarlet,  russet-brown  and  yel- 
lowing green ;  the  haze  has  grown  denser 
and  its  ghostly  presence  insinuates  itself 
among  the  very  needles  of  the  pines.  It 
is  Autumn.  The  gush  of  life  has  reached 
its  climax  and  is  ebbing.  High  on  the 
steepled  mountains  is  a  wreath  of  filmy 
white  that  trails  low  in  the  ravines.  It 
seems  as  fragile  as  a  bridal  veil,  but  it  is 
171 


TRAILS  THROUGH  WESTERN  WOODS 

the  foreword  of  Winter  which  will  soon 
descend  with  driving  blast  and  piping 
gale,  lancing  sleet  and  enshrouding  snow 
to  chill  the  last  red  ember-glow  of  the 
brilliant  autumnal  days.  It  was  at  this 
time  that  the  Indian's  blood  ran  hot  with 
longing  for  the  hunt.  Lodges  were  aban- 
doned and  only  those  too  weak  to  stand 
the  hardship  of  the  march  were  left  be- 
hind. Chiefs  and  braves,  women  and  chil- 
dren struck  out  for  the  haunts  of  the  buf- 
falo where  the  fat  herds  grazed  before  the 
impending  cold. 

These  children  of  the  forest  sought 
their  prey  with  the  woodcraft  handed 
down  from  old  to  young  through  unnum- 
bered generations.  Indeed,  it  was  neces- 
sary for  them  to  outwit  the  game  by  strat- 
egy in  the  early  days  before  the  wealthy 
and  progressive  Nez  Perce  Kayuses,  who 
were  first  to  break  the  wild  horses  of  the 
western  plains,  brought  the  domesticated 
pony  among  them.  In  passing,  it  is  in- 
teresting to  know  that  the  term  "cayuse" 
172 


THE  PASSING  BUFFALO 

applied  to  all  Indian  horses,  had  its  ori- 
gin with  this  tribe,  since  the  chief  article 
of  trade  of  the  Kayuses  was  the  horse,  the 
horse  of  Indian  commerce  became  known 
as  a  "cayuse."  The  Selish  used  the 
method  of  the  stockade.  After  the  march 
into  the  bufifalo  country,  they  camped  in 
a  spot  where  they  could  easily  fashion  an 
enclosed  park  by  means  of  barricades 
built  among  the  trees.  A  great  council 
of  the  chiefs  and  warriors  was  held  and 
this  august  body  appointed  a  company  of 
braves  to  guard  the  camp  and  prevent  any 
person  from  leaving  its  boundaries  lest  in 
so  doing  the  wily  bufifalo  should  become 
alarmed  and  quit  the  neighbouring  hills. 
The  council  proclaimed  anew  the  ancient 
laws  of  the  chase,  and  then  began  the 
building  of  the  pen.  This  was  a  kind  of 
communal  work  in  which  the  entire  tribe 
engaged,  and  as  all  contributed  labor  so 
all  should  benefit  alike  from  its  fruits. 
There  within  the  mock  park,  whose  plea- 
sant green  fringe  of  trees  was  in  reality  a 

173 


TRAILS  THROUGH  WESTERN  WOODS 

prison  wall,  would  be  trapped  and  killed 
the  food  for  the  sterile  winter  months, 
when,  but  for  that  bounty,  starvation 
would  stalk  gaunt  among  them  and  lay 
the  strongest  warrior  as  low  as  a  new 
born  babe  or  the  feebly  old  who  totter 
on  the  threshold  of  death.  The  place 
chosen  for  the  pen  was  a  level  glade  and 
the  enclosure  was  built  with  a  single  open- 
ing facing  a  cleft  in  the  surrounding  hills. 
.From  this  opening,  an  avenue  also  cun- 
ningly fenced  and  gradually  widening  to- 
wards the  hills,  was  constructed,  so  that 
the  animals  driven  thither,  could  escape 
neither  to  the  right  nor  the  left,  but  must 
needs  plunge  into  the  imprisoning  park. 

Next  came  the  election  of  the  Master 
of  Ceremonies,  the  Lord  of  the  Pen.  He 
was  a  man  seasoned  with  experience, 
mighty  with  the  knowledge  of  occult 
things — one  of  the  Wah-Kon,  Medicine 
Men  or  jugglers,  who  possessed thepower 
of  communicating  with  the  Great  Spirit. 
This    high    functionary   determined    the 

174 


THE  PASSING  BUFFALO 

crucial  moment  when  the  hunt  should  be- 
gin, and  when  the  buffalo,  roused  from 
the  inertia  of  grazing,  should  be  driven 
into  the  snare.  In  the  center  of  the  clear- 
ing he  posted  the  *'medicine-mast,"  made 
potent  by  three  charms,  "a  streamer  of 
scarlet  cloth  two  or  three  yards  long,  a 
piece  of  tobacco  and  a  buffalo  horn," 
which  were  supposed  to  entice  the  ani- 
mals to  their  doom.  It  was  he  who,  in 
the  early  dawn,  aroused  the  sleeping 
camp  with  the  beating  of  his  drum  and 
the  chanting  of  incantations;  who  con- 
ferred with  the  great  Manitous  of  the 
buffalo  to  divine  when  the  time  for  the 
chase  had  come. 

Under  the  Grand  Master  were  four 
swift  runners  who  penetrated  into  the 
surrounding  country  to  find  where  the 
buffalo  were  browsing  and  to  assist  by 
material  observation  the  promptings  of 
the  spirits  of  the  hunt.  They  were  pro- 
vided by  the  Grand  Master  with  a  Wah- 
Kon  ball  of  skin  stuffed  with  hair,  and 

175 


TRAILS  THROUGH  WESTERN  WOODS 

when  the  herds  were  found  in  a  favourable 
spot  and  the  wind  blew  from  the  direc- 
tion of  the  animals  to  the  pen,  one  of  the 
runners,  breathless  with  haste,  bearing  in 
his  hand  the  magic  ball,  appeared  before 
the  Grand  Master  and  proclaimed  the 
joyful  news.  There  was  a  mighty  beat- 
ing of  the  Grand  Master's  drum,  and  out 
of  the  lodges  ran  the  excited  people,  all 
bent  with  concentrated  energy  upon  the 
approaching  sport.  Every  horseman 
mounted,  and  those  less  fortunate  armed 
themselves  and  took  their  positions  in 
two  lines  extending  from  the  entrance  to 
the  enclosure  toward  the  open,  separating 
more  widely  as  the  distance  from  the  pen 
increased,  thus  forming  a  V  shape  with 
but  a  narrow  gateway  where  the  lines 
converged. 

Then  through  the  silent,  human  barri- 
cade rode  the  bravest  of  the  braves, 
astride  the  fleetest  horse  and  he  went  un- 
armed, always  against  the  wind,  envel- 
oped in  a  bufifalo  skin  which  hung  down 
176 


THE  PASSING  BUFFALO 

over  his  mount.  All  was  quiet.  Only  the 
light  Autumn  wind  flowing  through  the 
trees  carried  the  curious^  crisp,  cropping 
noise  of  thousands  of  iron-strong  jaws 
tearing  the  lush,  green  grass.  And  as  the 
rider  came  upon  the  crest  of  the  hill  and 
looked  at  the  panorama  of  waving  ver- 
dure peopled  by  multitudes  of  bison 
stretching  far  away  across  the  meadows 
and  over  the  rolling  ground  beyond,  it 
must  have  been  a  sight  to  quicken  the 
pulses  and  stir  the  blood.  Suddenly  there 
sounded  a  prolonged  and  distressing  cry 
— the  cry  of  a  buffalo  calf  which  wailed 
shrilly  for  a  moment,  then  ceased.  It 
came  from  the  brave  alone  in  the  open, 
shrouded  in  the  bufifalo  hide. 

There  was  a  movement  in  the  herd. 
Every  heavily  maned  head  rose,  and  quiv- 
ering nostrils  snuffed  the  running  wind. 
At  first  the  buffalo  advanced  slowly,  as 
if  in  doubt;  gradually  their  pace  quick- 
ened to  a  trot,  a  gallop,  then  lo!  the  whole 
vast  band  came  hurtling  and  lurching  in 
177 


TRAILS  THROUGH  WESTERN  WOODS 

its  furious  career  like  the  swells  of  a 
tempestuous,  black  sea,  breaking  into 
angry  waves  at  every  shock.  And  from 
those  deep  throats  came  a  mighty  roar, 
ponderous  and  resonant  as  the  thunder  of 
the  surf. 

Still  the  cry  of  the  calf  reverberated 
and  re-echoed,  and  the  single  horseman 
crouching  beneath  his  masquerade,  led 
the  herd  on  and  on,  eluding  their  on- 
slaught, luring  them  forward  between 
the  lines  of  his  companions  who  stood  si- 
lent, trembling  with  eagerness  for  the 
sport.  Then  pell-mell  the  mounted  hunt- 
ers rushed  out  from  cover  and  the  wide 
extremes  of  the  V  shaped  line  closed  in 
so  that  the  horsemen  were  behind  the 
herd.  This  done,  the  wind  blowing  to- 
ward the  corral,  took  the  scent  of  the  In- 
dians to  the  buffalo.  Pandemonium 
reigned.  Men,  women  and  children  on 
foot,  leaped  out  from  their  hiding  places 
with  demoniac  yells,  brandishing  spears, 
hurling  stones  and  shooting  arrows  from 

178 


THE  PASSING  BUFFALO 

their  bows.  The  stampeded  animals,  sur- 
rounded save  for  the  one  loophole  ahead, 
plunged  into  the  pen.  The  chase  was 
over  and  the  slaughter  began.    The  tribe 

would  live  well  that  Winter-time! 

*  ♦  *  * 

Among  the  Omawhaws  of  the  first  part 
of  the  last  century,  the  hunt  was  preceded 
by  much  preparation  and  ceremony.  Gen- 
erally by  the  month  of  June  their  stores 
of  jerked  buffalo  meat  were  well-nigh 
exhausted,  and  the  little  crops  of  maize, 
pumpkins,  beans  and  water-melons,  with 
the  yield  of  the  small  hunting  parties  pur- 
suing beaver,  otter,  elk,  deer  and  other 
game,  were  scarcely  sufficient  to  fill  the 
wants  of  the  tribe.  So,  after  the  harvest- 
ing and  trading  were  done,  the  chiefs 
called  a  council  and  ordered  a  feast  to 
be  held  in  the  lodge  of  one  of  the  most 
distinguished  of  their  number,  to  which 
all  hunters,  warriors  and  chiefs  should  be 
invited.  Accordingly  the  squaws  of  the 
chosen  host  were  commanded  by  him  to 
179 


TRAILS  THROUGH  WESTERN  WOODS 

make  ready  the  choicest  maize  and  the 
plumpest  dog  for  the  ceremonial  board. 
When  all  was  in  readiness  the  host  called 
two  or  three  venerable  criers  to  his  lodge. 
He  smoked  the  calumet  with  them,  then 
whispered  that  they  should  go  through 
the  village  proclaiming  the  feast  and  bid- 
ding the  guests  whom  he  named.  He  in- 
structed the  criers  to  "speak  in  a  loud 
voice  and  tell  them  to  bring  their  bowls 
and  spoons."  They  sallied  forth  singing 
among  the  lodges^  calling  to  the  distin- 
guished personages  to  come  to  the  ban- 
quet. After  these  summons  the  criers 
went  back  to  the  lodge  of  the  host,  quick- 
ly followed  by  the  guests  who  were  seated 
according  to  their  rank.  The  ceremony 
of  smoking  was  performed  first,  then  the 
Head  Chief  arose,  thanked  his  braves  for 
coming  and  explained  to  them  the  object 
of  the  assembly,  which  was  the  selection 
of  a  hunting  ground  and  the  appointment 
of  a  time  to  start.  After  him  the  others 
spoke,  each  giving  his  opinion  frankly, 
1 80 


THE  PASSING  BUFFALO 

but  always  careful  to  be  respectful  of  the 
opinions  of  others. 

Neither  squaws  nor  children  were  suf- 
fered to  be  present.  The  criers  tended 
the  kettle  and  when  the  speech-making 
was  done,  one  dipped  out  a  ladle  of  soup, 
held  it  toward  the  North,  South,  East  and 
West,  and  cast  it  into  the  ashes  of  the 
fire.  He  also  flung  a  bit  of  the  best  part 
of  the  meat  into  the  flame  as  a  sacrifice  to 
Wahconda,  the  Great  Spirit.  The  guests 
then  received  their  portions,  the  excel- 
lence of  which  depended  upon  their  rank. 
The  feast  closed  as  it  began,  with  the 
smoking  of  the  calumet  and  at  its  conclu- 
sion the  criers  went  forth  again,  chanting 
loud  songs  in  praise  of  the  generosity  of 
the  host,  enumerating  the  chiefs  and  war- 
riors who  partook  of  his  bounty,  finally 
proclaiming  the  decision  of  the  council 
and  announcing  the  time  and  place  of  the 
hunt.  This  was  an  occasion  of  great  re- 
joicing. The  squaws  at  once  began  to 
mend  the  clothing  and  the  weapons  of 
i8i 


TRAILS  THROUGH  WESTERN  WOODS 

their  lords  and  pack  their  goods;  and  the 
young  braves,  gay  with  paint  and  bright 
raiment,  beguiled  the  hours  with  gaming 
and  dancing  in  the  presence  of  the 
chiefs. 

When  the  day  of  the  journey  arrived 
the  whole  community  departed,  the  chiefs 
and  wealthy  warriors  on  horseback,  the 
poorer  folk  afoot.  Sometimes  the  quest 
of  the  buffalo  was  prolonged  over  weary 
weeks,  and  a  meager  diet  of  Pomme 
blanche  or  ground-apple,  was  insufficient 
to  stay  the  pangs  of  hunger  that  assailed 
the  tribe.  The  hunters  preceded  the  main 
body,  carefully  reconnoitering  the  coun- 
try for  bison  or  foes.  When  at  length 
herds  were  discovered,  the  hunters  threw 
up  their  robes  as  a  signal,  the  tribe  halted 
and  the  advance  party  returned  to  report. 
They  were  received  with  pomp  and  dig- 
nity by  the  chiefs  and  medicine  men  who 
sat  before  the  people  solemnly  smoking 
and  offering  articulate  thanks  to  JVah- 
conda.  In  a  low  voice  the  hunters  in- 
182 


THE  PASSING  BUFFALO 

formed  the  dignitaries  of  the  presence  of 
bufifalo.  These  mighty  personages,  in 
turn,  questioned  the  huntsmen  as  to  the 
numbers  and  respective  distances  of  the 
herds,  and  they  replied  by  illustrating 
with  small  sticks  the  relative  positions  of 
the  bands. 

An  old  man  of  high  standing  then  ad- 
dressed the  people,  telling  them  that  the 
coveted  game  at  length  wa.s  nigh,  and 
that  on  the  morrov^^  they  would  be  re- 
warded for  the  long  fast  and  fatigue. 

That  night  a  council  was  held  and  a 
corps  of  stout  warriors  elected  to  keep 
order.  These  officers  painted  themselves 
black,  wore  the  crow  and  were  armed 
with  war-clubs  in  order  that  they  might 
enforce  the  mandates  of  the  council  and 
preserve  due  decorum  among  the  excited 
tribe  folk. 

Early  in  the  morning  the  hunters  on 
horseback,  carrying  only  bows  and  arrows 
and  the  warriors  provided  with  war- 
clubs,  led  by  the  pipe-bearer  who  bore 

183 


TRAILS  THROUGH  WESTERN  WOODS 

the  sacred  calumet,  advanced  on  foot. 
Once  in  view  of  the  splendid,  living  mass- 
es covering  the  green  plains  as  with  a 
giant  sable  robe,  they  halted  for  the  pipe- 
bearer,  the  representative  of  the  Magi, 
to  perform  the  propitiatory  rite  of  smok- 
ing. He  lighted  his  calumet  of  red,  baked 
clay,  bowed  his  head  in  silence,  then  held 
the  stem  in  the  direction  of  the  herds.  Af- 
ter this  he  smoked,  exhaling  the  aromatic 
clouds  towards  the  buffalo,  the  heavens, 
the  earth  and  the  four  points  of  the  com- 
pass, called  by  them  the  "sunrise,  sunset, 
cold  country  and  warm  country,"  or  by 
the  collective  term  of  the  "four  winds." 
At  the  completion  of  this  ceremony  the 
head  chief  gave  the  signal  and  the  hunts- 
men charged  upon  their  prey. 

From  this  point  their  methods  were 
somewhat  the  same  as  those  of  the  Selish, 
except  that  instead  of  building  a  stockade, 
they,  themselves,  enclosed  the  herd  in  a 
living  circle,  pressing  closer  and  closer 
upon  it  until  the  killing  was  complete. 
184 


THE  PASSING  BUFFALO 

This  surrounding  hunt  was  called   Ta- 
wan-a-sa. 

The  chase  was  the  grand  event,  the 
test  of  horsemanship,  of  archery,  of  fine 
game-craft  and  often  the  opportunity  for 
glory  on  the  war-path  as  well — for  where 
the  buffalo  abounded  there  lurked  the 
hidden  enemy,  also  seeking  the  coveted 
herds,  and  an  encounter  meant  battle  to 
the  death.  Both  ponies  and  hunters  were 
trained  to  the  ultimate  perfection  of  skill 
and  the  favoured  bufifalo  horse  served  no 
other  purpose  than  to  bear  his  master  in 
the  chase.  As  the  cavalcade  descended 
upon  the  startled  game,  the  rider  caressed 
his  faithful  steed,  called  him  "father," 
"brother,"  "uncle,"  conjured  him  not  to 
fear  the  angry  beasts  yet  not  to  be  too 
bold  lest  he  be  hurt  by  goring  horns  and 
stamping  hoofs,  and  urged  him  with  hon- 
eyed speech  to  the  full  fruit  of  his 
strength  and  cunning.  And  the  horse,  re- 
sponding, flew  with  winged  stride,  un- 
guided  by  reins  to  the  edge  of  the  com- 
,8s 


TRAILS  THROUGH  WESTERN  WOODS 

pact,  fleeing  band,  never  hesitating,  never 
halting  until  the  shoulder  of  the  animal 
pursued,  was  exposed  to  the  death-deal- 
ing shot.  It  was  just  behind  the  shoulder 
blade  that  the  huntsman  sought  to  strike. 
The  inclination  of  his  body  in  one  direc- 
tion or  another  was  suflScient  to  send  the 
horse  speeding  after  fresh  prey. 

The  hunters,  themselves,  scorned  dan- 
ger and  knew  not  fear.  If  they  were  un- 
certain how  deep  the  arrow  had  pene- 
trated they  rode  close  to  the  infuriated 
brute  to  examine  the  nature  of  the  shot, 
and  if  necessary  to  shoot  again.  And  even 
though  in  the  grand  melee,  a  single  ani- 
mal was  often  pierced  with  many  arrows, 
there  were  seldom  quarrels  as  to  whom 
the  quarry  belonged,  so  nicely  could  they 
reckon  the  value  of  the  different  shots 
and  determine  which  had  dealt  the  most 
speedy  death. 

Onward  and  onward  they  sped,  circ- 
ling and  advancing  at  once,  like  a  whirl- 
wind on  the  face  of  the  prairie.  At  length, 
i86 


THE  PASSING  BUFFALO 

the  darting  riders  were  seen  more  and 
more  vividly  as  they  compressed  their  line 
about  the  routed  band,  until  finally,  only 
a  heap  of  carcasses  lay  where  the  herd 
had  been.  Then  the  tribe  came  upon  the 
scene.  The  squaws  cut  and  packed  the 
meat.  If  a  hunter  were  unfortunate  and 
killed  no  game,  he  helped  dissect  the  buf- 
falo of  a  lucky  rival.  On  completion  of 
his  task  he  stuck  his  knife  in  the  portion 
of  the  meat  he  desired  and  it  was  given  to 
him  as  compensation  for  his  labor. 

Someone,  either  by  order  of  the  chief 
or  of  his  own  free  will,  presented  his  kill 
to  the  Medicine  for  a  feast.  There  was 
great  revelry  and  joy,  dancing  and  eating 
of  marrow  bones,  to  celebrate  the  after- 
math of  the  royal  sport. 

Ill 

Although  the  meat  of  the  buffalo  was 
the  Indians'  chief  article  of  food,  this  was 
by  no  means  the  only  bond  between  the 

187 


TRAILS  THROUGH  WESTERN  WOODS 

red  man  and  the  aboriginal  herds  of  the 
plains.  Besides  the  almost  innumerable 
utilitarian  purposes  for  which  the  differ- 
ent parts  of  the  animals  were  used,  there 
was  scarcely  a  phase  of  life  or  a  ceremony 
in  which  they  did  not  figure.  In  the 
dance,  a  rite  of  the  first  importance,  in 
the  practice  of  the  Wah-Kon,  or  medi- 
cine, in  the  legends  of  the  creation  and 
the  after-death^  the  bufifalo  had  his  place. 
Such  lore  might  make  a  quaint  and  curi- 
ous volume,  but  we  shall  consider  only 
the  more  striking  uses  and  traditions  of 
the  bison  in  their  relation  to  the  life  of  the 
early  West. 

The  buffalo  was,  in  truth,  the  great  po- 
litical factor  among  the  tribes;  nearly  all 
of  the  bitter  warfare  between  nation  and 
nation  was  for  no  other  purpose  than  to 
maintain  or  gain  the  right  to  hunt  in  fa- 
vourable fields.  Thus  the  Judith  Basin, 
the  region  of  the  Musselshell  and  many 
other  haunts  of  the  herds,  became  also 
battle  fields  of  bloodshed  and  death.  Not 
i88 


THE  PASSING  BUFFALO 

only  did  the  bison  cause  hostilities  among 
the  nations,  but  they  were  likewise  the 
reason  of  internal  strife.  It  is  said  that 
the  Assiniboines,  or  Sioux  of  the  Moun- 
tains, separated  from  the  main  body  of 
the  tribe  on  account  of  a  dispute  between 
the  wives  of  two  rival  chiefs,  each  of 
whom  persisted  in  having  for  her  portion 
the  entire  heart  of  a  fine  bison  slain  in  the 
chase.  This  was  the  beginning  of  a  feud 
which  split  the  nation  into  independent, 
antagonistic  tribes. 

The  utmost  economy  was  generally  ob- 
served by  the  early  Indians  in  the  use  of 
the  buflfalo.  Each  part  of  the  animal 
served  some  particular  purpose.  The 
tongue,  the  hump  and  the  marrow  bones 
of  the  thighs  were  considered  the  great- 
est delicacies.  The  animals  killed  for 
meat  were  almost  always  cows,  for  the 
flesh  of  bufifalo  bulls  could  be  eaten  only 
during  the  months  of  May  and  June. 

Among  the  Omawhaws  of  nearly  two 
centuries  ago,  all  the  meat  save  the  hump 
189 


TRAILS  THROUGH  WESTERN  WOODS 

and  chosen  parts  reserved  for  immediate 
use,  was  cut  into  ''large,  thin  slices"  and 
either  dried  by  the  heat  of  the  sun  or 
"jerked  over  a  slow  fire  on  a  low  scaf- 
fold." After  being  thoroughly  cured  it 
was  compressed  into  "quadrangular  pack- 
ages" of  a  convenient  size  to  carry  on  a 
pack  saddle.  The  small  intestines  were 
carefully  cleaned  and  turned  inside  out 
to  preserve  the  outer  coating  of  fat,  then 
dried  and  woven  into  a  kind  of  mat. 
These  mats  were  packed  into  parcels  of 
the  same  shape  and  size  as  the  meat.  Even 
the  muscular  coating  of  the  stomach  was 
preserved.  The  large  intestines  were 
stuffed  with  flesh  and  used  without  de- 
lay. The  vertebrae  were  pulverized  with 
a  stone  axe  after  which  the  crushed  bone 
was  boiled.  The  very  rich  grease  that 
arose  to  the  surface  was  skimmed  and  pre- 
served in  bladders  for  future  use.  The 
stomach  and  bladder  were  filled  with  this 
and  other  sorts  of  fat,  or  converted  into 
water  bottles.  All  of  the  cured  meat  was 
190 


THE  PASSING  BUFFALO 

cached^  in  French-Canadian  phrase,  un- 
til hunger  drove  the  Indians  to  draw  upon 
these  stores. 

The  pemmican  of  song  and  history  was 
a  kind  of  hash  made  by  toasting  buffalo 
meat,  then  pulverizing  it  to  a  fine  consis- 
tency with  a  stone  hammer.  Mr.  James 
Mooney  in  the  Fourteenth  Annual  Re- 
port of  the  Bureau  of  Ethnology,  de- 
scribes the  process  as  follows;  "In  the 
old  times  a  hole  was  dug  in  the  ground 
and  a  buffalo  hide  was  staked  over  so  as 
to  form  a  skin  dish,  into  which  the  meat 
was  thrown  to  be  pounded.  The  hide  was 
that  from  the  neck  of  the  buffalo,  the 
toughest  part  of  the  skin,  the  same  used 
for  shields,  and  the  only  part  which 
would  stand  the  wear  and  tear  of  the  ham- 
mers. In  the  meantime  the  marrow  bones 
are  split  up  and  boiled  in  water  until  all 
the  grease  and  oil  comes  to  the  top,  when 
it  is  skimmed  off  and  poured  over  the 
pounded  beef.  As  soon  as  the  mixture 
cools,  it  is  sewed  up  into  skin  bags  (not 
191 


TRAILS  THROUGH  WESTERN  WOODS 

the  ordinary  painted  parfleche  cases) 
and  laid  away  until  needed.  It  was  some- 
times buried  or  otherwise  cached.  Pem- 
mican  thus  prepared  will  keep  indefi- 
nitely. When  prepared  for  immediate 
use,  it  is  usually  sweetened  with  sugar, 
mesquite  pods,  or  some  wild  fruit  mixed 
and  beaten  up  with  it  in  the  pounding. 
It  is  extremely  nourishing,  and  has  a  very 
agreeable  taste  to  one  accustomed  to  it. 
On  the  march  it  was  to  the  prairie  Indian 
what  parched  corn  was  to  the  hunter  of 
the  timber  tribes,  and  has  been  found  so 
valuable  as  a  condensed  nutriment  that  it 
is  extensively  used  by  arctic  travellers  and 
explorers.  A  similar  preparation  is  used 
upon  the  pampas  of  South  America  and 
in  the  desert  region  of  South  Africa, 
while  the  canned  beef  of  commerce  is  an 
adaptation  from  the  Indian  idea.  The 
name  comes  from  the  Cree  language,  and 
indicates  something  mixed  with  grease  or 
fat.     (Lacombe.)" 

Among  the  Sioux  at  Pine  Ridge  and 

192 


•  THE  PASSING  BUFFALO 

Rosebud,  in  the  ceremony  of  the  Ghost 
Dance,  pemmican  was  celebrated  in  the 
sacred   songs.      Mr.    Mooney   gives   the 
translation  of  one  of  them: 
'^Give  me  my  knife, 

Give  me  my  knife, 

I  shall  hang  up  the  meat  to  dry — Ye' ye'! 

I  shall  hang  up  the  meat  to  dry — Ye' ye'! 

Says  grandmother — Yo'yo' ! 

Says  grandmother — Yo'yo'! 

When  it  is  dry  I  shall  make  pemmican, 

When  it  is  dry  I  shall  make  pemmican, 

Says  grandmother — Yo'yo'! 

Says  grandmother — Yo'yo'!" 

Though  at  first  the  main  object  for 
which  the  buffalo  was  hunted  was  the 
flesh,  next  in  importance  and  afterwards 
foremost,  was  the  hide  made  into  the  buf- 
falo robe  of  commerce.  Since  these  robes 
played  such  an  important  part  in  the 
early  traffic  and  were  partly  responsible 
for  the  annihilation  of  the  bison,  it  is 
worth  while  to  consider  how  they  were 

193 


TRAILS  THROUGH  WESTERN  WOODS 

procured  and  treated.  The  skins  to  be 
dressed  were  taken  in  the  early  Spring 
while  the  fur  was  long,  thick  and  luxuri- 
ant. Those  obtained  in  the  Autumn  called 
"Summer  skins"  were  used  only  in  the 
making  of  lodges,  clothing,  and  for  other 
domestic  purposes.  To  the  squaws  was 
assigned  the  preparation  of  the  hides  as 
well  as  the  cutting  and  curing  of  the 
meat.  Immediately  after  the  hunt  while 
in  the  "green"  state  the  skins  were 
stretched  and  dried.  After  this,  they  were 
taken  to  the  village  and  subjected  to  a 
process  of  curing  which  was  carried  on 
during  the  leisure  of  the  women.  The 
hide  was  nearly  always  cut  down  the  cen- 
ter of  the  back  so  that  it  could  be  more 
easily  manipulated.  The  two  parts  were 
then  spread  upon  the  ground  and  scraped 
with  a  tool  like  an  adze  until  every  par- 
ticle of  flesh  was  removed.  In  this  way 
all  unnecessary  thickness  was  obviated 
and  the  hide  was  made  light  and  pliable. 
When  the  skin  had  been  reduced  to  the 
194 


THE  PASSING  BUFFALO 

proper  thinness  a  dressing  made  of  the 
liver  and  brains  of  the  animal  were 
spread  over  it.  This  mixture  was  allowed 
to  dry  and  the  same  process  was  repeated 
save  that  in  the  second  instance  while  the 
hide  was  wet  it  was  stretched  in  a  frame, 
carefully  scraped  with  pumice  stone, 
sharp-edged  rocks  or  a  kind  of  hoe,  until 
it  was  dry.  To  make  it  as  flexible  as  pos- 
sible, it  was  then  drawn  back  and  forth 
over  twisted  sinew.  The  parts  were  sewed 
together  with  sinew  and  the  buffalo  robe 
was  ready  for  the  trader's  hands. 

As  early  as  1819  these  robes  were  in 
great  demand  and  one  trader  reported 
that  in  a  single  year  he  shipped  fifteen 
thousand  to  St.  Louis. 

In  the  everyday  life  of  the  Indians  the 
products  of  the  bufifalo  yielded  nearly 
every  comfort  and  necessity.  The  hides 
were  used  not  only  for  robes  and  port- 
able lodges  which  furnished  shelter  on 
the  march,  but  they  were  made  into 
battle    shields;    upon    their   tanned    sur- 

195 


TRAILS  THROUGH  WESTERN  WOODS 

face  the  primitive  artist  traced  his 
painted  record  of  the  chase,  the  fray, 
or  the  mystic  medicine.  They  were  laid 
upon  the  earth  for  the  young  braves  to 
play  their  endless  games  of  chance  upon, 
and  the  wounded  were  taken  from  the 
field  on  stretchers  of  buffalo  hides  swung 
between  a  pair  of  ponies.  From  them  two 
kinds  of  boats  were  made.  One,  described 
by  James  in  his  account  of  the  journey  of 
his  party  in  1819-20  is  as  follows: 

"Our  heavy  baggage  was  ferried  across 
in  a  portable  canoe,  consisting  of  a  single 
bison  hide,  which  we  carried  constantly 
with  us.  Its  construction  was  extremely 
simple;  the  margin  of  the  hide  being 
pierced  with  several  small  holes,  admits  a 
cord,  by  which  it  is  drawn  into  the  form 
of  a  shallow  basin.  This  is  placed  upon 
the  water,  and  is  kept  sufficiently  distend- 
ed by  the  baggage  which  it  receives;  it  is 
then  towed  or  pushed  across.  A  canoe  of 
this  kind  will  carry  from  four  to  five 
hundred  pounds." 

196 


I 


THE  PASSING  BUFFALO 

The  second  variety,  known  as  a  "bull- 
boat,"  was  made  of  willows  woven  into  a 
round  basket  and  lined  with  buffalo  hide. 

The  grease  of  these  beasts  was  used  to 
anoint  the  Indians'  bodies  and  to  season 
the  maize  or  corn. 

From  the  horns  were  made  spoons, 
sometimes  holding  half  a  pint,  and  often 
ornamented  upon  the  handles  with  curi- 
ous carving. 

The  shoulder  blade  fastened  to  a  stick 
served  for  a  hoe  or  a  plow. 

From  the  hide  of  unborn  buffalo  calves 
bags  were  made  to  contain  the  war-paint 
of  braves. 

It  would  be  at  once  possible  and  profit- 
able to  continue  enumerating  the  practi- 
cal uses  of  the  buffalo,  but  far  more  in- 
teresting than  these  facts  were  the  cere- 
monies, superstitions  and  traditions  in 
which  they  were  bound  up. 

Perhaps,  first  among  the  rites  in  sacred 
significance  and  solemn  dignity  was  the 
smoking  of  the  calumet.  This  was  sup- 
197 


TRAILS  THROUGH  WESTERN  WOODS 

posed  to  be  not  only  an  expression  of 
peace  among  men  and  nations,  but  a  pro- 
pitiatory offering  to  the  Manitous,  or 
guardian  spirits,  and  to  the  Master  of 
Life. 

According  to  Colonel  Mallory  in  the 
Tenth  Annual  Report  of  the  Bureau  of 
Ethnology,  the  Sioux  believed  that  this 
supreme  emblem  of  good  will  was 
brought  to  them  by  a  white  buffalo  cow, 
in  the  old  days  when  the  different  bands 
of  the  nation  were  torn  with  internal 
strife.  During  this  period  of  hostility  a 
beautiful  white  buffalo  cow  appeared, 
bearing  a  pipe  and  four  grains  of  corn, 
each  of  a  different  colour.  From  the  milk 
which  dripped  from  her  body,  sprang 
the  living  corn,  so  from  the  beginning  the 
grain  and  the  buffalo  meat  were  decreed 
to  be  the  food  of  the  Indians.  She  gave 
to  the  rival  factions,  the  pipe  which  was 
the  sacred  calumet,  instructing  them  that 
it  was  the  symbol  of  peace  among  men 
and  he  who  smoked  it  with  his  fellows,  by 
198 


THE  PASSING  BUFFALO 

that  act  sealed  the  bond  of  brotherhood. 
After  staying  for  awhile  among  the  grate- 
ful people,  and  teaching  them  to  call  her 
"Grandmother,"  which  is  a  term  of  affec- 
tionate reverence  among  the  Indians,  she 
led  them  to  plentiful  herds  of  her  own 
kind  and  vanished  into  the  spiritland 
whence  she  came. 

The  odour  of  the  buffalo  was  believed 
to  be  agreeable  to  the  Great  Spirit  so  that 
the  tobacco  or  kinnikinick  of  the  calumet 
was  flavoured  with  animal's  excrement  in 
order  that  the  aroma  wafted  upward 
might  be  most  pleasing.  This  custom  of 
flavouring  the  pipe  with  the  scent  of  the 
buffalo  was  carefully  observed  by  the 
Pawnee  Loups  of  the  olden  time,  a  tribe 
which  claimed  descent  from  the  ancient 
Mexicans,  in  the  awful  ceremonies  pre- 
ceding a  human  sacrifice  to  Venus,  the 
"Great  Star."  Upon  this  austere  occa- 
sion four  great  buflfalo  skulls  were  placed 
within  the  lodge  where  the  celebration 
was  held  and  they  were  offered  the  sacred 
199 


TRAILS  THROUGH  WESTERN  WOODS 

nawishkaro  or  calumet.  The  bodies  of 
their  chiefs  or  those  who  died  gloriously 
in  war  were  robed  in  buffalo  skins,  fur- 
nished with  food  and  weapons,  and 
placed  sitting  upright,  in  a  little  lodge 
near  a  route  of  travel  or  a  camp  in  order 
that  the  passers  by  might  see  that  they  had 
met  their  death  with  honour.  The  Paw- 
nees also  used  bison  skulls  as  signals,  and 
we  find  in  James'  Travels  this  interesting 
account: 

"At  a  little  distance  in  front  of  the  en- 
trance of  this  breastwork,  was  a  semi-cir- 
cular row  of  sixteen  bison  skulls,  with 
their  noses  pointing  down  the  river.  Near 
the  center  of  the  circle  which  this  row 
would  describe  if  continued,  was  another 
skull  marked  with  a  number  of  red  lines. 

"Our  interpreter  informed  us  that  this 
arrangement  of  skulls  and  other  marks 
here  discovered,  were  designed  to  com- 
municate the  following  information, 
namely,  that  the  camp  had  been  occupied 
by  a  war  party  of  the  Pawnee  Loup  In- 
200 


THE  PASSING  BUFFALO 

dians,  who  had  lately  come  from  an  ex- 
cursion against  the  Cumancias,  Tetans  or 
some  of  the  Western  tribes.  The  number 
of  red  lines  traced  on  the  painted  skull 
indicated  the  number  of  the  party  to  have 
been  thirty-six;  the  position  in  which  the 
skulls  were  placed,  that  they  were  on 
their  return  to  their  own  country.  Two 
small  rods  stuck  in  the  ground,  with  a  few 
hairs  tied  in  two  parcels  to  the  end  of 
each  signified  that  four  scalps  had  been 
taken." 

There  are  many  other  similar  instances 
recorded  by  different  adventurers  who 
braved  the  early  West,  yet  this  was  but 
one  of  numerous  uses  of  buffalo  skulls 
and  heads.  Among  the  Aricaras  upon 
each  lodge  was  a  trophy  of  the  war  path 
or  the  chase  composed  of  strangely  paint- 
ed buffalo  heads  topped  with  all  kinds 
of  weapons. 

There  was  a  curious  belief  among  the 
Minitarees  that  the  bones  of  the  buffalo 
killed  in  the  chase  became  rehabilitated 
20 1 


TRAILS  THROUGH  WESTERN  WOODS 

with  flesh  and  lived  again,  to  be  hunted 
the  following  year.  In  support  of  this 
superstition  they  had  a  legend  that  once 
upon  a  time  on  a  great  hunt  a  boy  of  the 
tribe  was  lost.  His  people  gave  him  up 
for  dead  but  the  succeeding  season  a  huge 
bison  was  slain  and  when  the  body  was 
opened  the  boy  stepped  out  alive  and 
well.  He  related  to  his  dumbfounded 
companions,  how  the  year  before,  he  had 
become  separated  from  them  as  he  pur- 
sued a  splendid  bull.  He  felled  his 
game  with  an  arrow,  but  so  far  had  he 
gone  that  it  was  too  late  to  overtake  and 
rejoin  the  tribe  before  nightfall.  There- 
fore, he  cut  into  the  bison's  body,  removed 
a  portion  of  the  intestines  and  feeling  the 
keen  frost  of  evening  upon  his  unshel- 
tered body,  sought  warmth  within  the 
carcass.  But,  lo!  when  the  boy  awakened 
the  buffalo  was  whole  again  and  he  was 
a  prisoner  within  his  whilom  prey! 

The  Gros  Ventres,  in  the  day  of  Lewis 
and  Clark,  thought  that  if  the  head  of  the 

202 


e 


I 


THE  PASSING  BUFFALO 

slain  buffalo  were  treated  well,  the  living 
herd  would  come  in  plentiful  numbers  to 
yield  an  abundance  of  meat. 

Of  the  many  bands  into  which  the 
Omawhaw  nation  was  divided  there  were 
two,  the  Ta-pa-eta-je  and  the  Ta-sin-da, 
bison  tail^  which  had  the  buffalo  for  their 
medicine.  The  first  of  these  were  sworn 
to  abstain  from  touching  buffalo  heads, 
and  the  second  were  forbidden  the  flesh 
of  the  calves  until  the  young  animals  were 
more  than  one  year  old.  If  these  vows 
were  broken  by  a  member  of  the  band  and 
the  sacred  pledge  so  violated,  a  judgment 
such  as  blindness,  white  hair  or  disease 
was  believed  to  be  sent  upon  the  offender. 
Even  should  one  innocently  transgress  the 
law,  a  visitation  of  sickness  was  account- 
ed his  condign  portion  and  not  only  he 
but  his  family  were  included  in  the  wrath 
and  punishment  of  the  outraged  Mani- 
tous. 

The  Crow  Indians,  Up-sa-ro-ka,  or 
Absaroka,  used  the  buffalo  as  a  part  of 
203 


TRAILS  THROUGH  WESTERN  WOODS 

their  great  medicine.  An  early  traveller, 
Dougherty,  describes  an  extraordinary 
"arrangement  of  the  magi."  In  his  own 
words,  "the  upper  portion  of  a  cotton- 
wood  tree  was  emplanted  with  its  base  in 
the  earth,  and  around  it  was  a  sweat 
house,  the  upper  part  of  the  top  of  the 
tree  arising  through  the  roof.  A  gray 
bison  skin,  extended  with  oziers  on  the  in- 
side so  as  to  exhibit  a  natural  appearance, 
was  suspended  above  the  house,  and  on 
the  branches  were  attached  several  pairs 
of  children's  moccasins  and  leggings,  and 
from  one  limb  of  the  tree,  a  very  large 
fan  made  of  war-eagles'  feathers  was  de- 
pendent." 

This  leads  to  an  interesting  superstition 
of  the  Indians,  which  was  that  any  varia- 
tion in  the  usual  colour  of  the  buffalo  was 
caused  by  the  special  interference  of  the 
Master  of  Life,  and  a  beast  so  distin- 
guished from  his  kind  was  venerated  re- 
ligiously, much  as  the  ancient  Egyptians 
worshipped  the  sacred  bull.  Once  a 
204 


THE  PASSING  BUFFALO 

"grayish-white"  bison  was  seen  and  upon 
another  occasion  a  calf  with  white  fore- 
feet and  a  white  frontal  mark.  An  early 
traveller  once  saw  in  an  Indian  lodge,  the 
head  of  a  buffalo  perfectly  preserved, 
which  was  marked  by  a  white  star.  The 
man  to  whom  it  belonged  treasured  it  as 
his  medicine,  nor  would  he  part  with  it 
at  any  price. 

"  'The  herds  come  every  season,'  he 
said,  'into  the  vicinity  to  seek  their  white- 
faced  companion!'" 

Maximilian,  in  his  Travels  in  North 
America,  gives  an  interesting  descrip- 
tion of  the  martial  and  sacred  significance 
of  the  robes  of  white  buffalo  cows  among 
the  Mandans  and  Minitarees.  He  says 
that  the  brave  who  has  never  possessed 
this  emblem  is  without  honour,  and  the 
merest  youth  who  has  obtained  it  ranks 
above  the  most  venerable  patriarch  who 
has  never  owned  the  precious  hide.  In- 
deed, "of  all  the  distinctions  of  any  man 
the  white  buffalo  hide"  was  supreme.  As 
205 


TRAILS  THROUGH  WESTERN  WOODS 

the  white  buffalo  were  extremely  rare  it 
was  seldom  a  hunter  killed  one  for  him- 
self. The  robes  were  brought  by  other 
tribes,  often  from  far  distant  parts  of  the 
country,  to  the  Mandans  who  traded  from 
ten  to  fifteen  horses  for  a  perfect  speci- 
men. It  was  necessary  for  the  hide  to  be 
that  of  a  young  cow  not  more  than  two 
years  old,  and  it  had  to  be  cured  ''with 
the  horns,  nose,  hoofs  and  tail"  complete. 
In  Maximilian's  words:  "The  Mandans 
have  peculiar  ceremonies  at  the  dedica- 
tion of  the  hide.  As  soon  as  they  have 
obtained  it  they  engage  an  eminent  medi- 
cine man,  who  must  throw  it  over  him; 
he  then  walks  around  the  village  in  the  ap- 
parent direction  of  the  sun's  course,  and 
sings  a  medicine  song.  When  the  owner, 
after  collecting  articles  of  value  for  three 
or  four  years,  desires  to  offer  his  treasure 
to  the  lord  of  life,  or  to  the  first  man,  he 
rolls  it  up,  after  adding  some  wormwood 
or  a  head  of  maize,  and  the  skin  then  re- 
mains suspended  on  a  high  pole  till  it  rots 

206 


THE  PASSING  BUFFALO 

away.  At  the  time  of  my  visit  there  was 
such  an  offering  at  Mih-Tutta-Hang- 
Kush,  near  the  stages  for  the  dead  with- 
out the  village.  Sometimes,  when  the 
ceremony  of  dedication  is  finished,  the 
hide  is  cut  into  small  strips,  and  the  mem- 
bers of  the  family  wear  parts  of  it  tied 
over  the  head,  or  across  the  forehead, 
when  they  are  in  full  dress.  If  a  Mandan 
kills  a  young  white  buffalo  cow  it  is  ac- 
counted to  him  as  more  than  an  exploit, 
or  having  killed  an  enemy.  He  does 
not  cut  up  the  animal  himself,  but  em- 
ploys another  man,  to  whom  he  gives  a 
horse  for  his  trouble.  He  alone  who  has 
killed  such  an  animal  is  allowed  to  wear 
a  narrow  strip  of  the  skin  in  his  ears.  The 
whole  robe  is  not  ornamented,  being  es- 
teemed superior  to  any  other  dress,  how- 
ever fine.  The  traders  have,  sometimes, 
sold  such  hides  to  the  Indians,  who  gave 
them  as  many  as  sixty  other  robes  in  ex- 
change. Buffalo  skins  with  white  spots 
are  likewise  highly  valued  by  the  Man- 
207 


TRAILS  THROUGH  WESTERN  WOODS 

dans;  but  there  is  a  race  of  these  animals 
with  very  soft,  silky  hair,  which  has  a 
beautiful  gold  lustre  when  in  the  sun- 
shine; these  are,  likewise,  highly  prized." 

There  are  numerous  myths  of  a  white 
buffalo  cow,  who  at  will,  assumed  the 
form  of  a  beautiful  maiden. 

The  Sioux  in  common  with  the  Ari- 
caras  and  the  Minitarees  observed  the 
custom  of  fasting  before  going  to  war  or 
upon  the  hunt.  They  had  a  "medicine 
lodge,"  where  a  buffalo  robe  was  spread 
and  a  red  painted  post  was  planted.  Upon 
the  top  of  the  lodge  was  tied  a  buffalo 
calf  skin  holding  various  sacred  objects. 
After  preliminary  rites  they  tortured 
themselves,  one  favorite  method  being  to 
make  a  gash  under  their  shoulder  blades, 
run  cords  through  the  wounds  and  drag 
two  large  bison  heads  to  a  hill  about  a 
mile  distant  from  their  village,  where 
they  danced  until  they  fell  fainting  with 
exhaustion. 

Some  of  the  tribes  performed  the  Ta- 

208 


THE  PASSING  BUFFALO 

nuguh-wat-che,  or  bison  dance.  The  par- 
ticipants were  painted  black,  wore  a  head 
dress  made  of  the  skin  of  a  buflfalo  head 
which  was  cut  after  the  fashion  of  a  cap. 
It  was  adjusted  in  a  manner  to  resemble 
a  live  animal,  and  extending  from  this 
head  dress,  over  the  half-naked  and  black- 
ened bodies  of  the  dancers,  depended  a 
long  strip  of  hide  from  the  back  of 
the  buffalo  which  hung  down  like  a 
tail. 

The  Omawhaws  believed  that  the  Great 
Wahconda  appeared  sometimes  in  the 
shape  of  a  bison  bull  and  they,  like  other 
tribes,  cherished  legends  of  a  fabulous 
age  when  animals  spoke  together,  did  bat- 
tle and  possessed  intelligence  equal  to  that 
of  men.  The  following  myth  of  the  bison 
bull,  the  ant  and  the  tortoise,  related  by 
James,  is  an  interesting  example  of  these 
fables : 

Once  upon  a  time  an  ant,  a  tortoise 
and  a  buffalo  bull  formed  themselves  in- 
to a  war  party  and  determined  to  attack 
209 


TRAILS  THROUGH  WESTERN  WOODS 

the  village  of  an  enemy  in  the  vicinity. 
They  decided  in  council  that  the  tortoise 
being  sluggish  and  slow  of  movement, 
should  start  in  advance  and  the  ant  and 
bull  should  time  their  departure  so  as  to 
overtake  him  on  the  way.  This  plan  was 
adopted  and  the  awkward  tortoise  floun- 
dered forth  on  his  hostile  mission  alone. 
In  due  time  the  bison  bull  took  the  ant 
upon  his  back,  lest  on  account  of  his  mi- 
nuteness he  be  lost,  and  together  they  set 
out  for  the  enemy's  country.  At  length 
they  came  to  a  treacherous  bog  where 
they  found  the  poor  tortoise  struggling 
vainly  to  free  himself.  This  caused  the 
ant  and  the  bull  much  merriment  as  they 
crossed  safely  to  solid  ground.  But  the 
tortoise,  scorning  to  ask  the  aid  of  his 
brothers  in  war,  replied  cheerfully  to 
their  taunts  and  insisted  that  he  would 
meet  them  at  the  hostile  village. 

The  ant  and  the  bison  advanced  with 
noise  and  bravado  and  the  watchful 
enemy  perceiving  them,  issued  from  their 

2IO 


THE  PASSING  BUFFALO 

lodges  and  wounded  both,  driving  them 
to  headlong,  inglorious  retreat. 

Finally  the  tortoise  with  sore  travail, 
reached  his  destination  to  find  his  com- 
panions flown,  and  because  he  could  not 
flee  also,  he  fell  into  the  hands  of  the  foe 
— a  prisoner.  These  cruel  people  decided 
to  put  him  to  death  at  once.  They  threat- 
ened him  with  slow  roasting  in  red  coals 
of  firCj  with  boiling  and  many  awful  tor- 
tures, but  the  astute  tortoise  expressed  his 
willingness  to  sufifer  any  of  these  penal- 
ties. Therefore  the  enemy  consulted  to- 
gether again  and  held  over  his  head  the 
fate  of  drowning.  Against  this  he  protest- 
ed with  such  frenzied  vehemence  that  his 
captors  immediately  executed  the  sen- 
tence, and  bearing  him  to  a  deep  part  of 
the  river  which  flowed  through  their 
country,  flung  him  in.  Thus  restored  to 
his  native  element  he  plunged  to  the  bot- 
tom of  the  stream,  then  arose  to  the  sur- 
face to  see  his  enemies  gaping  from  the 
bank  in  expectation  of  his  agony.     He 

211 


TRAILS  THROUGH  WESTERN  WOODS 

grabbed  several  of  them,  dragged  them 
down  and  killed  them,  and  appeared  once 
more  triumphantly  displaying  their 
scalps  to  the  bewildered  multitude  of 
thwarted  warriors  who  were  helpless  to 
avenge  their  brethren.  The  tortoise,  sat- 
isfied with  his  achievement,  returned  to 
his  home  where  he  found  the  ant  and  the 
bull  prone  upon  the  floor  of  the  lodge, 
wounded,  humbled  and  fordone.  *  *  * 
Finally,  the  Minitarees  and  other 
tribes  had  a  curious  legend  of  their 
origin.  They  believed  that  their  fore- 
fathers once  dwelt  in  dark,  subterranean 
caverns,  beyond  a  great,  swift-running 
river.  Two  youths  disappeared  from 
amongst  them  and  after  a  short  absence 
returned  to  proclaim  that  they  had  found 
a  land  lighted  by  an  orb  which  warmed 
the  earth  to  fecundity,  where  deep  waters 
shimmered  crystal  white  and  countless 
herds  of  bison  covered  grass  and  flower- 
decked  plains.  So  the  youths  led  the  peo- 
ple up  out  of  the  primal  darkness  into  the 

212 


THE  PASSING  BUFFALO 

pleasant  valleys  where  they  dwelt  ever- 
more. And  as  the  bison  were  celebrated 
in  this  child-like  tradition  of  the  Begin- 
ning, so  likewise,  did  they  figure  in  the 
primitive  conception  of  the  hereafter. 
That  region  of  Summer  where  the  good 
Indian  should  find  repose,  was  pictured 
as  an  ideal  country,  fair  with  verdure  and 
rich  with  herds  of  buffalo  which  the  good 
spirits  would  go  seeking  through  the 
golden  vistas  of  eternity. 


IV 


When  the  first  explorers  penetrated 
the  fastnesses  of  the  New  World  the  buf- 
falo was  lord  of  the  continent.  Coronado 
on  his  march  northward  from  Mexico 
saw  hordes  of  these  unknown  beasts  which 
a  chronicler  of  1600  described  naively  as 
"crooked-backed  oxen."  The  mighty 
herds  roamed  through  the  blue  grass  of 
Kentucky,  the  Carolinas,  that  region  now 
the  state  of  New  York,  and  probably 
213 


TRAILS  THROUGH  WESTERN  WOODS 

every  favorable  portion  of  North  Ameri- 
ca. Very  gradually  they  were  pushed 
farther  and  farther  westward  to  the  vi- 
cinity of  the  Rocky  Mountains,  which 
was  for  many  years  their  refuge  and  re- 
treat. In  1 8 19  the  official  expedition  sent 
by  John  C.  Calhoun  to  examine  the 
Rocky  Mountains,  their  tribes,  animal 
and  plant  life,  found  the  buffalo  reduced 
in  numbers,  though  in  the  wild  stretches 
of  country  lying  South  along  the  Arkan- 
sas, they  were  seen  in  countless  hordes. 
The  report  says: 

"During  these  few  days  past,  the  bisons 
have  occurred  in  vast  and  almost  continu- 
ous herds,  and  in  such  infinite  numbers 
as  seemed  to  indicate  the  great  bend  of 
the  Arkansas  as  their  chief  and  general 
rendezvous." 

The  account  continues  to  narrate  how 

the  scent  of  the  white  men  borne  to  the 

farthest  animal,  a  distance  of  two  miles, 

started  the  multitudes  speeding  away,  and 

214 


THE  PASSING  BUFFALO 

yet  SO  limitless  were  those  millions,  that, 
day  after  day,  they  flowed  past  like  a  sea 
until  their  presence  became  as  a  part  of 
the  landscape,  and  by  night  their  thunder- 
ous bellow  echoed  through  the  savage 
wastes. 

In  Bradbury's  Travels  there  is  a  de- 
scription of  a  fight  among  bufifalo  bulls. 
He  says : 

"On  my  return  to  the  boats,  as  the  wind 
had  in  some  degree  abated,  we  proceeded 
and  had  not  gone  more  than  five  or  six 
miles  before  we  were  surprised  by  a  dull, 
hollow  sound,  the  cause  of  which  we 
could  not  possibly  imagine.  It  seemed 
to  be  one  or  two  miles  below  us;  but  as 
our  descent  was  rapid,  it  increased  every 
moment  in  loudness,  and  before  we  had 
proceeded  far,  our  ears  were  able  to  catch 
some  distinct  tones,  like  the  bellowing  of 
buffaloes.  When  opposite  to  the  place 
from  whence  it  proceeded,  we  landed,  as- 
cended the  bank,  and  entered  a  small 
skirting  of  trees  and  shrubs,  that  sep- 
215 


TRAILS  THROUGH  WESTERN  WOODS 

arated  the  river  from  an  extensive  plain. 
On  gaining  a  view  of  it,  such  a 
scene  opened  to  us  as  will  fall  to  the  lot 
of  few  travellers  to  witness.  This  plain 
was  literally  covered  with  buffaloes  as 
far  as  we  could  see,  and  we  soon  discov- 
ered that  it  consisted  in  part  of  females. 
The  males  were  fighting  in  every  direc- 
tion, with  a  fury  which  I  have  never  seen 
paralleled,  each  having  singled  out  his 
antagonist.  We  judged  that  the  number 
must  have  amounted  to  some  thousands, 
and  that  there  were  many  hundreds  of 
these  battles  going  on  at  the  same  time, 
some  not  eighty  yards  from  us.  The  noise 
occasioned  by  the  trampling  and  bellow- 
ing was  far  beyond  description." 

At  that  time  the  bison  paths  were  like 
well  trodden  roadways  and  served  as  such 
to  the  explorers.  These  paths  always  led 
by  most  direct  routes  to  fresh  water,  and 
therefore  were  of  the  greatest  assistance 
to  travellers  unacquainted  with  the  undis- 
covered lands. 

2l6 


THE  PASSING  BUFFALO 

Such  were  the  legions  of  the  plains 
even  when  the  East  had  refused  them 
shelter.  And  although  it  was  roughly 
estimated  that  the  tribes  dwelling  along 
the  Missouri  River  killed  yearly  100,000 
for  food,  saddle  covers  and  clothes,  this 
did  not  appreciably  lessen  their  hosts. 
Not  until  the  white  tide  flowed  faster  and 
faster  over  the  wilds  was  the  doom  of  the 
buffalo  sounded,  together  with  that  of  the 
forests  which  sheltered  them,  and  the  In- 
dians who  were  at  once  their  foes  and 
their  friends. 

Then  the  destruction  was  swift  beyond 
belief.  The  royal  game  which  Coro- 
nado  saw  in  1585,  which  Lewis  and  Clark 
in  their  adventurous  journey  into  the  un- 
known West  encountered  at  every  turn, 
was  nearly  gone.  They  endured  in  such 
numbers  that  as  late  as  1840  Father  De 
Smet  said: 

"The  scene  realized  in  some  sort  the 
ancient  tradition  of  the  holy  scriptures, 
speaking  of  the  vast  pastoral  countries  of 
217 


TRAILS  THROUGH  WESTERN  WOODS 

the  Orient,  and  of  the  cattle  upon  a  thou- 
sand hills." 

It  was  inconceivable  to  the  Indians 
that  civilization  should  w^reak  such  utter 
desolation.  They  could  not  comprehend 
the  passing  of  the  mighty  herds  any  more 
than  they  could  appreciate  the  destruc- 
tion of  the  forests  or  their  own  decline. 
They  did  not  know  that  the  railroad 
which  traversed  the  highway  of  the  plains 
between  the  East  and  West  ran  through 
miles  upon  miles  of  country  whitened 
with  buffalo  bones;  that  veritably  the 
prairies  which  had  been  the  pasture  of  the 
herds  were  now  become  their  graveyard 
— a  graveyard  of  unburied  dead.  They 
did  not  know  that  armies  of  workingmen 
and  settlers  had  drawn  upon  the  buffalo 
for  food  and  warmth,  that  the  beasts  had 
been  harried  and  hunted  North,  South, 
East  and  West,  sometimes  legitimately, 
but  too  often  in  cruel,  wanton  sport,  until, 
at  last,  it  became  an  evident  fact  that  they 
were  visibly  nearing  their  end.  A  kind 
218 


THE  PASSING  BUFFALO 

of  Stampede  possessed  the  terrified  beasts. 
Their  old  haunts  were  usurped.  Where 
the  fostering  forests  had  given  them  shel- 
ter, towns  arose.  Baffled  and  dismayed 
they  fled,  hither  and  thither,  only  to 
crash  headlong  within  the  range  of  the 
huntsman's  gun.  So  they  charged  at  ran- 
dom, ever  pressed  closer  and  closer  to  bay 
by  the  encroaching  life  which  was  their 
death. 

About  the  year  of  1883  it  was  known 
that  the  last  thinned  and  vagrant  remnant 
of  the  bufifalo  was  virtually  gone.  Mad- 
dened into  desperate  bewilderment  they 
had  done  an  unprecedented  thing.  In- 
stead of  going  northward  as  their  habit 
had  been  since  man  first  observed  their 
kind,  they  turned  and  fled  South.  This 
was  their  end.  The  half-breeds  of  the 
Red  River,  the  Sioux  of  the  Missouri, 
and  most  relentless  of  all,  the  white  hide- 
hunter,  beset  the  wild,  retreating  band. 
Their  greed  spared  neither  beast  that  tot- 
tered with  age,  nor  calf  fresh  from  its 
219 


TRAILS  THROUGH  WESTERN  WOODS 

mother's  womb.  All  fell  prey  to  the  mas- 
tering greed  of  the  lords  of  the  great  free 
land. 

Upon  the  shores  of  the  Cannonball 
River,  so-called  from  the  heaps  of  round 
stones  upon  its  banks,  on  the  edge  of  the 
Dakotas,  the  bufifalo  made  their  last 
stand.  Driven  to  bay  they  stood  and  fell 
together,  the  latest  offspring  of  a  van- 
ished race. 

But  the  poor  Indian,  he  who  had 
shared  the  freedom  of  the  continent  with 
his  horned  friend,  could  not  yet  under- 
stand that  the  buffalo  were  gone — gone 
as  the  sheltering  woods  were  going,  even 
as  he,  himself,  must  go.  Evolution  is 
cruel  as  well  as  beneficent  and  there  is 
a  pang  for  each  poor,  lesser  existence 
crushed  out  in  the  race,  as  there  is  joy  in 
the  survival  of  the  strongest  and  best. 
And  those  who  are  superior  to-day  must 
themselves  be  superseded  to-morrow  and 
fall  into  the  abysmal  yesterday,  mere 
stepping  stones  toward  the  Infinite.  The 
220 


THE  PASSING  BUFFALO 

Indians,  knowing  none  of  these  things, 
became  troubled  and  perplexed.  In  vain 
they  sought  the  herds  on  their  old-time 
hunting  grounds,  but  only  stark,  bleached 
bones  were  there  and  they  went  back  to 
their  lodges,  hungry,  gaunt  and  wan. 

In  years  past  the  buffalo  had  disap- 
peared at  intervals  to  unknown  pastures, 
then  returned  multiplied  and  reinforced. 
Was  it  not  possible  that  they  had  gone 
upon  such  a  journey,  perhaps  to  the  ul- 
timate North  where  the  Old  Man  dwelt, 
to  seek  refuge  in  a  mighty  polar  cave  un- 
der his  benign  protection?  So  from  their 
meager  stores  the  Indians  offered  sacri- 
fices of  horses  and  other  of  their  most  val- 
ued possessions,  to  the  Old  Man,  that  he 
might  drive  the  buffalo  back  to  the  de- 
serted pasture  lands  near  the  Rocky 
Mountains. 

"They  are  tired,"  said  Long  Tree  of 
the  Sioux,  "with  much  running.  They 
have  had  no  rest.  They  have  been  chased 
and  chased  over  the  rocks  and  gravel  of 

221 


TRAILS  THROUGH  WESTERN  WOODS 

the  prairie  and  their  feet  are  sore,  worn 
down,  like  those  of  a  tender-footed  horse. 
When  the  buffalo  have  rested  and  their 
feet  have  grown  out  again,  they  will  re- 
turn to  us  in  larger  numbers,  stronger, 
with  better  robes  and  fatter  than  they 
ever  were." 

Still  the  years  passed  and  the  buffalo 
came  not,  and  some  there  were  who  said 
that  if  the  Old  Man,  the  Great  Spirit  of 
the  North,  loved  his  children  of  the  for- 
est, he  would  not  have  left  them  to  suffer 
so  painfully  and  long. 

Then  out  of  dumb  despair  came  sudden 
hope;  out  of  the  bitter  silence  sounded  a 
Voice  and  a  prophet  came  "preaching 
through  the  wilderness,"  even  as  John  the 
Baptist  had  come,  centuries  ago,  bringing 
a  message  of  peace  and  the  promise  of 
salvation.  This  prophet  was  Wovoka, 
founder  of  the  Ghost  Dance  religion, 
who  arose  in  "the  land  of  the  setting  sun," 
in  the  shadow  of  the  Sierras.  He  told 
the  wrapt   people   that  when   "the   sun 

222 


THE  PASSING  BUFFALO 

died"  he  went  to  heaven  where  he  saw 
God,  the  spirits  of  those  long  dead  and 
vast  herds  of  revivified  buffalo  feeding  in 
the  pastures  of  the  skies.  Heaven  would 
not  be  perfect  to  the  Indian  without  the 
buffalo,  and  the  red  man,  less  jealous  than 
ourselves  of  his  paradise,  was  willing  to 
share  the  bliss  of  immortality  with  his 
old-time  companions  of  the  plains.  The 
tenets  of  the  new  creed  were  gentle, 
teaching  peace,  truth,  honesty  and  univer- 
sal brotherhood.  Under  the  thrall  of 
the  Ghost  Dance,  devotees  dropped  to 
earth  insensible  and  had  visions  of  the 
spirit-world.  Wovoka  prophesied  that  at 
the  appointed  time  the  ghostly  legions, 
led  by  a  spirit  captain,  would  descend 
from  heaven,  striking  down  the  unbeliev- 
ers and  restoring  to  the  Indians  and  the 
buffalo  dominion  over  the  earth. 

With  the  awful  desperation  of  a  last 

hope  the  Indians  leaped   high   into   the 

Night  surrounding  them  to  grasp  at  a  star 

— a  star,  alas!  which  proved  to  be  but  a 

223 


TRAILS  THROUGH  WESTERN  WOODS 

will-o'-the-wisp  set  over  a  quagmire  of 
death.  Nothing  seemed  impossible  to 
their  excited  fancy.  Had  not  the  white 
race  killed  the  Christ  upon  a  Cross  of  tor- 
ture, and  would  he  not  come  to  earth 
again  as  an  Indian,  to  gather  his  children 
together  in  everlasting  happiness  when 
the  grass  should  be  green  with  the 
Spring?  Meantime  they  must  dance, 
dance  through  the  weary  days  and  nights 
in  order  that  the  prophesy  might  be  ful- 
filled. 

An  alarm  spread  through  the  country. 
What  meant  this  frenzied  dance  of  circ- 
ling, whirling  mystics  who  strained  with 
wide  eyes  to  look  beyond  the  skies?  An 
order  came  that  the  dance  must  cease. 
This  decree  was  but  human,  the  one 
which  bade  them  dance  they  believed  to 
be  divine.  And  dance  they  did,  wildly, 
madly,  to  the  sharp  time  of  musketry  un- 
til the  hurrying  feet  were  stilled  and  the 
dancers  lay  cold  and  stark  on  the  field 
of  Wounded  Knee. 

224 


THE  PASSING  BUFFALO 

In  all  the  annals  of  the  Indians'  tragic 
tale  there  is  nothing  more  pitiful  than  this 
Dance  of  Death.  The  poor  victims,  to- 
gether with  the  last  hope  of  a  despairing 
race,  were  buried  at  Wounded  Knee,  and 
the  white  man  wrought  his  will. 

Slowly  and  steadily  the  woods  were 
laid  low,  inevitably  the  Indians  retreated 
farther  and  farther  back,  closer  pressed, 
routed  as  the  buffalo  had  been.  All  hope 
of  the  return  of  the  beloved  herds  left 
their  hearts  and  they  knew  at  last  that 
they  would  find  them  only  in  those  Elys- 
ian  fields  of  perpetual  summertime — the 
Happy  Hunting  Ground. 


The  sun  set  red  behind  the  mountains. 
The  shadows  stole  down,  gray  and  mys- 
tical as  ghosts.  From  afar  the  coyote's 
dolorous  cry  plained  through  the  silence 
and  the  owl  hooted  dismally  as  he  awak- 
ened at  the  approach  of  night.  There  in 
225 


TRAILS  THROUGH  WESTERN  WOODS 

the  pallid  dusk  lay  the  bleached  skull  and 
the  arrowhead  of  black  obsidian,  mute 
reliques  of  the  past.  The  royal  buffalo 
is  no  more,  the  hunter  that  hurled  the  bolt 
is  gone.  We  may  find  the  inferior  off- 
spring of  the  one  in  city  parks,  of  the 
other  on  ever-lessening  reservations,  but 
degeneracy  is  more  pitiful  than  death, 
and  the  old,  free  herds  that  ranged  the 
continent  are  past  as  the  fleet-footed, 
strong-hearted  tribes  have  vanished  from 
the  plains. 

So  the  story  of  the  two  fallen  races  is 
told  eloquently  by  this  whitened  skull 
on  the  hillside  and  the  jet-black  arrow 
head  flung  by  the  stilled  red  hand. 


226 


LAKE  McDonald  &  its  trail 


CHAPTER  VII 

LAKE  MCDONALD  AND  ITS  TRAIL 

IN  the  northern  part  of  Montana, 
towards  the  Canadian  border,  the 
Main  Range  of  the  Rocky  Moun- 
tains has  been  rent  and  carved  by 
glacial  action  during  ages  gone  by,  un- 
til the  peaks,  like  tusks,  stand  separate 
and  distinct  in  a  mighty,  serrated  line. 
No  one  of  these  reaches  so  great  a 
height  as  Shasta,  Rainier  or  Hood, 
but  here  the  huge,  horned  spine  rises 
almost  sheer  from  the  sweep  of  tawny 
prairie,  and  not  one,  but  hosts  of  pin- 
nacles, sharp  as  lances,  stand  clean  cut 
against  the  sky.  Approaching  the  range 
from  the  East,  in  the  saffron  glow  of  sun- 
set, one  might  fancy  it  was  wrought  of 
amethyst,  so  intense  and  pure  is  the 
colour,  so  clear  and  true  the  minutest  de- 
229 


TRAILS  THROUGH  WESTERN  WOODS 

tail  of  the  grandly  sculptured  outline. 
Within  the  ice-locked  barriers  of  those 
heights  live  glaciers  still  grind  their  pas- 
sages through  channels  of  stone;  down  in 
shadowy  ravines,  voiceful  with  silver- 
tongued  falls,  lie  fair  lakes  in  the  embrace 
of  over-shadowing  altitudes.  The  larg- 
est of  these  lakes,  McDonald,  is  the  heart 
of  a  vast  and  marvelous  country,  the  cen- 
ter of  many  trails. 

The  road  to  Lake  McDonald  winds 
along  the  shores  of  the  Flathead  River 
for  half  a  mile  or  more,  skirting  the 
swift  current  now  churned  itno  white 
foam  by  rapids,  then  calm  and  trans- 
parent, revealing  the  least  stone  and 
tress  of  moss  in  its  bed,  in  shades  of  lim- 
pid emerald.  Leaving  the  river,  the  way 
lies  through  dense  forests  of  pine  and 
tamarack,  cedar  and  spruce,  and  so  close- 
ly do  the  spreading  boughs  interlace  that 
the  sun  falls  but  slightly,  in  quivering, 
pale  gold  splashes  upon  the  pads  of  moss 
and  the  fragrant  damp  mold  which  bursts 
230 


LAKE  MCDONALD  AND  ITS  TRAIL 

into  brilliant  orange-coloured  fungus  and 
viciously  bright  toadstools.  Each  fallen 
log,  each  boulder  wrested  from  its  place 
and  hurled  down  by  glacier  or  avalanche, 
is  dressed  in  a  faery  garb  of  moss  and  tiny, 
fragrant  shell-pink  bells  called  twinflow- 
ers,  because  two  blossoms,  perfect  twins, 
always  hang  pendent  from  a  single  stem 
as  slender  as  spun  glass,  and  these  small 
bells  scent  the  air  with  an  odour  as  sweet 
as  heliotrope.  Within  the  forest  dim 
with  perpetual  twilight,  one  feels  the 
vastness  of  great  spaces,  the  silence  of 
great  solitudes. 

Suddenly  there  bursts  upon  one,  with 
all  the  up-bearing  exhilaration  of  a  first 
sight  of  the  sea,  a  scene  which,  once  en- 
graved upon  the  heart,  will  remain  for- 
ever. The  trees  part  like  a  curtain  drawn 
aside  and  the  distance  opens  magnificent- 
ly. The  intense  blue  of  the  cloudless  sky 
arches  overhead,  the  royal  waters  of  the 
lake  flow  blue  and  green  with  the  colours 
of  a  peacock's  tail  or  the  variegated 
231 


TRAILS  THROUGH  WESTERN  WOODS 

beauty  of  an  abalone  shell;  sweeping  up- 
ward from  the  shores  are  tall,  timbered 
hills,  so  thickly  sown  with  pine  that  each 
tree  seems  but  a  spear  of  grass  and  the 
whole  forest  but  a  lawn,  and  towering  be- 
yond, yet  seeming  very  near  in  the  pure, 
white  light,  is  a  host  of  peaks  silvered 
with  the  benediction  of  the  clouds — the 
deathless  snow.  The  haze  that  tints  their 
base  is  of  a  shade  one  sometimes  finds  in 
violets,  in  amethysts,  in  dreams.  Indeed, 
these  mountains  seem  to  descend  from 
heaven  to  earth  rather  than  to  soar  from 
earth  towards  heaven,  so  great  is  their 
sublimity. 

As  one  floats  away  on  the  lake  the  view 
changes.  New  vistas  open  and  close,  new 
peaks  appear  above  and  beyond  as  though 
their  legion  would  never  come  to  an  end. 
Straight  ahead  two  irregular,  rugged 
mountains  with  roots  of  stone  emplanted 
in  the  water,  rise  like  a  mighty  portal,  and 
between  the  two,  seeming  to  bridge  them, 
is  a  ridge  called  the  "Garden  Wall."  The 
232 


LAKE  MCDONALD  AND  ITS  TRAIL 

detail  of  the  more  immediate  steeps  grows 
distinct  and  we  see  from  their  naked 
crests  down  their  timbered  sides,  deep 
furrows,  the  tracks  of  avalanches  which 
have  rushed  from  the  snow  fields  of  Win- 
ter, uprooting  trees  and  crushing  them 
in  the  fury  of  the  mad  descent.  A  long, 
comparatively  level  stretch,  not  unlike 
a  gun  sight  set  among  the  bristling, 
craggy  summits,  is  the  "Gunsight  Pass," 
the  difficult  way  to  the  Great  St.  Mary's 
Lakes,  the  Blackfeet  Glacier  and  the 
wonderful,  remote  region  on  the  Eastern 
slope  of  the  range.  Huge,  white  patches 
mark  glaciers  and  snow  fields,  for  it 
is  within  these  same  mountains  that  the 
Piegan  (Sperry)  and  many  others  lie. 
And  as  we  drift  on  and  on  across  the 
smooth  expanse  of  water,  the  magic  of  it 
steals  upon  our  souls.  For  there  is  about 
the  lake  a  charm  apart  from  the  beauty 
of  the  waters  and  the  glory  of  the  peaks ; 
of  spirit  rather  than  substance;  of  soul- 
essence  rather  than  earthly  form.    That 

233 


TRAILS  THROUGH  WESTERN  WOODS 

mysterious  force,  whatever  it  may  be,  ris- 
ing from  the  water  and  the  forest  soli- 
tudes and  descending  from  the  mountain 
tops,  flows  into  our  veins  with  the  amber 
sunshine  and  we  feel  the  sweeping  uplift 
of  altitudes  heaven-aspiring  that  take  us 
back  through  infinite  ages  to  the  Source 
which  is  Nature  and  God. 

The  good  old  captain  of  the  little  craft 
weaves  fact  and  fancy  into  wonderful 
yarns  as  he  steers  his  launch  straight  for 
the  long,  purplish-green  point  which  is 
the  landing.  To  him  no  ocean  greyhound 
is  more  seaworthy  than  his  boat,  and  he 
likes  to  tell  of  timid  tender-feet  entreat- 
ing him  to  keep  to  shore  when  the  lake 
was  tumultuous  with  storm,  and  how  he, 
spurning  danger,  guided  them  all  safely 
through  the  trough  of  the  waves.  He 
keeps  a  little  log  wherein  each  passenger 
is  asked  to  write  his  name.  The  poor  old 
man  has  a  maimed  hand,  his  eyes  are 
filmy  with  years  and  his  gums  are  all  but 
toothless,  but  it  would  seem  that  nature 

234 


G 


LACIER  Camp 


LAKE  MCDONALD  AND  ITS  TRAIL 

has  compensated  him  for  his  afflictions  by 
concentrating  his  whole  strength  in  his 
tongue.  He  knows  each  landmark  well, 
and  gravely  points  out  to  the  credulous 
traveller,  the  highest  mountain  in  the 
world;  calls  attention  to  the  18,000  fath- 
oms of  lake  depth  whence  no  drowned 
man  ever  rises,  and  other  marvels,  each 
the  greatest  of  its  kind  upon  the  circum- 
ference of  the  globe.  There  came  a  day 
soon  after  when  the  lake  chafed  beneath 
a  lashing  gale  and  the  little  craft  and  her 
gallant  captain  were  dumped  inglorious- 
ly  upon  the  beach.  But  accidents  happen 
to  the  best  of  seamen,  and  the  launch,  af- 
ter a  furious  expulsion  of  steam,  and 
much  hiccoughing,  was  dragged  once 
more  into  her  place  upon  the  wave. 

Although  there  is  evidence  that  Lake 
McDonald  was  long  ago  frequented  by 
some  of  the  Indian  tribes,  it  was  not 
known  to  the  world  until  comparatively 
recent  times.  There  are  two  stories  of  its 
discovery   and    naming,    both   of   which 

235 


TRAILS  THROUGH  WESTERN  WOODS 

have  a  foundation  of  truth.    The  first  is 
that   Sir  John    McDonald,   the   famous 
Canadian    politician,    riding    across    the 
border  with  a  party,  cut  a  trail  through 
the   pathless    woods    and    happening    to 
penetrate  to  the  lake,  blazed  his  name  up- 
on a  tree  to  commemorate  the  event,  thus 
linking  his  fame  with  the  newly  found 
natural  treasure.     The  old  trail  remains 
— probably  the  virgin  way  into  the  wil- 
derness. The  second  story — which  is  from 
the  lips  of   Duncan   McDonald,  son  of 
Angus,  runs  thus:     He  and  a  little  band 
of  Selish  were  crossing  from  their  own 
land  of  the  Jocko  into  the  country  of  the 
Blackfeet  which  lies  East  of  the  Main 
Range,  to  recover  some  ponies  stolen  by 
the  latter  tribe,  when  they  came  in  view 
of  this  lake  hitherto  unknown  to  them. 
Duncan  McDonald,  who  was  the  leader 
or  partizan,  as  the  French-Canadians  say, 
blazed  the  name  "McDonald"  upon  some 
pines  along  the  shore.     It  matters  little 
who  was  actually  the  first  to  set  foot  on 
236 


LAKE  MCDONALD  AND  ITS  TRAIL 

these  unpeopled  banks,  but  it  is  a  strange 
coincidence  that  the  two  pathfinders 
should  have  borne  the  same  name. 

The  purplish-green  point  draws  near- 
er, log  cabins  appear  among  the  trees, 
each  one  decorated  with  a  bear  skin  hung 
near  its  door.  This  is  a  fur  trading  center 
as  well  as  a  resort  of  nature  lovers,  and 
upon  the  broad  porch  of  the  club  house  is 
a  heap  of  pelts  of  silver  tip,  black  and 
brown  bear,  mountain  lion  and  lynx,  and 
from  the  walls  within,  bighorn  sheep  and 
mountain  goats'  heads  peer  down.  The 
trappers  themselves,  quaint,  old  hunters 
of  the  wilderness,  come  out  of  their  re- 
treats to  trade.  But  even  now  their  day 
is  passing.  With  the  advent  of  outside 
life  these  characters,  scarcely  less  shy  than 
the  game  they  seek,  move  farther  back 
into  uncontaminated  solitudes.  They  are 
the  last,  lingering  fragment  of  that  old 
West  which  is  so  nearly  a  sad,  sweet  mem- 
ory, a  loving  regret. 

Each  hour  of  the  day  traces  its  lapse  in 

237 


TRAILS  THROUGH  WESTERN  WOODS 

light  and  shadow  on  the  lake,  until  the 
sunset  flowing  in  a  copper  tide,  draws 
aureoles  of  golden  cloud  over  the  white- 
browed  peaks,  transforming  their  huge 
and  rugged  bulk  into  luminous  light-giv- 
ing bodies  of  faded  roses  and  lavender. 
As  the  evening  wanes  the  mountains  burn 
out  in  ashes  of  roses,  still  lightened  here 
and  there  upon  their  ultimate  heights, 
with  a  glow  as  faint  as  the  memory  of  a 
dead  love,  and  the  living  halo  of  the 
clouds  deepens  into  coral  crowns.  Then 
the  lake  becomes  a  vast  opal,  kindling 
with  fires  that  flash  and  die  in  the  grow- 
ing dusk. 

The  dark  forests  that  cloak  the  lake 
shores,  are  threaded  with  trails  each 
leading  to  some  treasure  store  of  Nature 
far  off  in  the  secrecy  of  the  hills.  One  of 
great  beauty  starts  from  the  head  of  the 
lake,  beneath  the  shadow  of  the  moun- 
tains, and  overhangs  the  boisterous,  rock- 
rent  torrent  of  McDonald's  Creek.  The 
narrow  way  is  padded  thick  with  pine 

238 


LAKE  MCDONALD  AND  ITS  TRAIL 

needles  ground  into  sweet,  brown  powder 
which  deadens  the  least  intrusive  footfall, 
as  though  the  whole  wood  were  harken- 
ing  to  the  singing  of  the  waters  through 
the  silence  of  the  trees.  Along  the  trail 
are  mosses  of  multitudinous  kinds.  The 
delicate  star  moss  unfolds  its  feathery 
points  of  green;  a  strange  variety  with 
thick,  mottled  leaves  grows  like  a  full 
blown  rose  around  decayed  trees,  and  a 
small,  pale,  gray-green  trumpet-shaped 
moss  rears  hosts  of  elfin  horns.  Only  a 
skilled  botanist  could  classify  these  rich 
carpets  which  Nature  has  spread  over  the 
dead  royalty  of  her  forests,  so  that  even 
in  their  death  there  is  resurrection;  even 
in  their  decay^  new  life.  Bluebells  and 
twinflowers,  those  delicate  faery-bells  of 
pink,  sweet  grass,  pigeon  berry  and  many 
another  blossom  beautiful  in  its  strange- 
ness, weave  their  colour  into  gay  patterns 
on  the  green;  blend  their  fragrance  with 
the  balsam  sweetness  of  the  woods.  And 
all  around,  the  stately  pine  trees  grow 

239 


TRAILS  THROUGH  WESTERN  WOODS 

bearded  with  long,  gray  moss  which 
marks  their  antiquity  and  foretells  their 
doom.  The  stream  below,  flowing  be- 
tween steep  banks  that  it  has  cut  during 
centuries  of  ceaseless  washing,  raises  its 
song  to  a  roar  as  it  flings  its  swift  current 
over  a  parapet  of  stone  in  a  banner  of 
shimmering,  white  foam.  Above,  the  wa- 
ter breaks  in  whirling  rapids  and  farther 
still  is  another  fall.  Towering  in  the  dis- 
tance is  an  exalted  peak,  the  father  of  this 
stream,  whose  snowy  gift  pours  down  its 
perennial  blessing  into  the  clear  tide  of 
the  lake. 

So  it  is,  the  streams  that  issue  from  the 
glaciers  yield  their  pure  tribute  to  Lake 
McDonald,  and  all  the  trails,  uncoiling 
their  devious  and  dizzy  ways  over  the 
mountains,  bring  us  back  to  these  shores. 
And  every  time  that  we  return  it  breaks 
upon  us  with  renewed  freshness  of  mood. 
It  may  be  ridden  by  a  wind  that  lashes 
it  into  running  waves  of  purple  and  wine 
colour,  marked  with  the  white  foot-prints 
240 


LAKE  MCDONALD  AND  ITS  TRAIL 

of  the  gale.  It  may  be  still  as  the  first 
thought  of  love^  holding  in  its  broad  mir- 
ror the  bending  sky  and  mountains  peer- 
ing into  its  secrecy.  It  may  be  ephem- 
eral with  mist  that  dims  the  mountains 
into  pale,  shadowy  ghosts;  or  it  may  be 
like  a  voluptuous  beauty  glittering  with 
jewels  and  clad  in  robes  of  silken  sheen; 
again,  it  may  be  Quakerish  in  its  pallid 
monotone.  The  changing  cycle  of  the 
day  and  night  each  brings  its  different 
gift  of  beauty,  and  likewise,  the  passing 
seasons  deck  the  mountains  and  the  waters 
with  a  glory  all  their  own,  until,  with 
martial  hosts  of  cloud,  with  banners 
streaming  silver  and  emblazoned  with 
lightning-gleam.  Winter  spreads  its  gar- 
ment of  white  upon  the  mystery  of  the 
wild.  Perhaps  the  lake  is  never  so  exqui- 
site as  then.  At  least  it  seems  so,  as  with 
closed  eyes  and  passive  soul,  a  memory 
undimmed  arises  out  of  the  past. 

It  is  night  in  the  dead  of  Winter.    The 
silence  of  deep  sleep  and  isolation  is  on 
241 


TRAILS  THROUGH  WESTERN  WOODS 

the  world.  The  snow  has  fallen  like  a 
flock  of  white  birds  and  the  air  has 
cleared  to  the  degree  of  scintillating  bril- 
liance that  mocks  the  diamond's  flash. 
The  full  moon  is  beneath  a  cloud  and  its 
veiled  light,  filtering  through  the  vapor, 
shows  dimly  the  shadowy  waters  and  the 
wan  peaks  fainting  far  away.  Then  the 
cloud  passes.  The  moon  leaps  into  the 
heavens  and  a  flood  of  white  light  illu- 
mines the  water,  the  sky  and  the  moun- 
tains, transforming  the  whole  into  a  faery 
scene  of  arctic  splendour.  It  is  as  though 
the  last  breath  of  life  had  vanished  in  that 
chaste  frozen  atmosphere,  and  the  earth 
had  become  a  Palace  of  Dreams. 

And  though  that  Palace  of  Dreams 
vanishes  as  dreams  must,  like  a  melting 
snow  crystal  or  a  frosty  sigh  upon  the 
night,  there  remains  in  our  hearts  a 
yearning  which  shall  bear  us  back  to  the 
reality  of  beauty  that  rewards  each  pil- 
grim who  returns  to  the  deathless  glory 
of  the  mountain-married  lake. 
242 


ABOVE    THE    CLOUDS 


CHAPTER  VIII 

ABOVE  THE  CLOUDS 

OF  all  the  trails  in  the  McDonald 
country,  there  is  none  more  trav- 
elled, or  more  worthy  of  the  toil 
than  that  which  leads  to  the  Piegan  gla- 
cier. From  the  moment  we  stand  in  ex- 
pectant readiness  in  the  little  clearing  be- 
hind the  log  cabins  comprising  the  hotel, 
a  new  phase  of  existence  has  begun  for 
us.  So  strange  are  the  place  and  the  con- 
ditions that  it  seems  we  must  have  stepped 
back  fifty  years  or  more,  into  that  West 
whose  glamour  lives  in  story  and  song. 
Strong,  tanned,  sinewy  guides  who  wear 
cartridge  belts  and  six-shooters,  load 
grunting  pack-horses  and  "throw"  dia- 
mond-hitches in  businesslike  silence. 
When  at  last  all  is  ready,  the  riders 
mount  the  Indian  ponies  or  "cayuses" — 

245 


TRAILS  THROUGH  WESTERN  WOODS 

Allie  Sand,  the  yellow  cow  pony;  Babe, 
the  slumbrous;  Bunchie,  but  recently 
subdued,  and  Baldy,  nicknamed  "Fool- 
ish" because  of  the  musical  pack  of  ket- 
tles, camp  stoves  and  sundries  that  jingle 
and  jump  up  and  down  upon  his  back, 
lightening  the  way  with  merriment  for 
those  who  follow.  With  a  quickened  beat- 
ing of  the  heart,  the  good  cheer  and  God- 
speed of  friendly  voices  ringing  in  our 
ears,  we  take  leave  of  the  last  haunt  of 
civilization  and  strike  out  into  the  virgin 
solitude  of  heaven-aspiring  peaks. 

As  the  feeling  of  remoteness  smites  the 
spirit  when  we  pass  beyond  the  railway 
station  of  Belton  and  follow  in  creaking 
wagons  the  shadow-curtained  road  to  the 
lake,  so  now  it  returns  with  stronger  im- 
pulse, calling  to  life  new  emotions  be- 
gotten of  the  Wild.  The  world-rush 
calms  into  the  great  stillness  of  untrod- 
den places,  the  world-voices  sigh  out  in 
the  murmuring  breeze,  the  petty  traffic 
of  the  cities  is  forgotten  in  the  soulful  si- 
246 


ABOVE  THE  CLOUDS 

lence  of  the  trees.  And  out  of  this  newly 
found  affinity  with  the  Nature  forces,  the 
love  of  adventure  thrills  into  being,  to- 
gether with  the  fine  scorn  of  danger  and 
the  resolve  to  do  that  which  we  set  out  to 
do  no  matter  what  the  cost  or  the  peril. 
Here  the  "white  feather"  is  the  greatest 
badge  of  dishonour,  and  he  who  fails 
through  cowardice  to  win  his  goal  is  a 
man  among  men  no  more.  This  spirit  is 
the  faint,  far-ofif  echo  of  the  hero-bearing 
days  of  the  early  West. 

Our  guide  is  a  stocky,  little  man  of  sol- 
dierly bearing,  clad  in  khaki  suit  and 
cow-boy  hat,  whom  his  fellows  call 
"Scotty."  He  is  brown  with  exposure, 
smoothly  shaven,  and  his  keen,  blue  eyes 
are  slightly  contracted  at  the  corners 
from  the  strain  of  peering  through  vast 
distances — a  characteristic  of  men  who 
follow  woodcraft  and  hunting.  He  rides 
ahead  silently  but  for  a  rebuke  to  the 
slumbrous  "Babe,"  such  as,  "Go  on,  you 
lazy  coyote,"  or  a  familiar,  half-caress- 
247 


TRAILS  THROUGH  WESTERN  WOODS 

ing  remark  to  Bunchie,  the  ex-outlaw, 
who  is  his  favourite.  Indeed,  he,  like 
most  men  who  have  ridden  the  range,  has 
the  habit  of  talking  to  the  ponies  as 
though  they  knew  and  understood.  And 
who  can  be  sure  they  do  not? 

The  forests  begin  as  soon  as  the  bit  of 
clearing  is  passed,  then  single  file  the  lit- 
tle cavalcade  moves  on  through  huckle- 
berry fields,  purplish-black  with  luscious, 
ripe  berries,  where  bears  come  to  feed  and 
fatten,  where,  also,  thirsty  wayfarers  stop 
to  eat  the  juicy  fruit.  The  pines  clasp 
branches  overhead  in  a  lacy,  broken  roof 
whose  pattern  of  needle  and  burr  shows 
in  dark  traceries  against  patches  of  blue 
sky  remote  and  far  beyond.  A  thick, 
sweet  shadow  dappled  now  and  again 
with  splashes  of  yellow  sun  tempers  the 
air  which  presses  its  cool  touch  upon  our 
brows.  On  either  hand  a  dense,  even 
lawn  of  tender  green  fern  and  mist-maid- 
en covers  the  earth  and  through  the  si- 
lence sounds  the  merry  clamour  of  a 
248 


ABOVE  THE  CLOUDS 

Stream.  It  ripples  gaily  along  between 
wooded  banks,  breaking  into  little  crests 
of  foam  upon  the  rocks,  showing  through 
the  glassy  medium  of  its  waters,  every 
stone  and  pebble  of  its  speckled  bed  pol- 
ished and  rounded  by  ceaseless  flowing. 
The  horses  splash  through  the  creek  and 
upon  the  opposite  side  begins  anew  the 
delicate  lawn  of  mist-maiden  and  fern, 
so  freshly,  tenderly  green  with  the  pale 
greenness  of  things  that  live  away  from 
the  sun,  so  ephemerally  exquisite  as  to 
embarrass  coarse,  mortal  presence.  It  is 
a  spot  fit  for  fairies  to  dance  upon;  fit  for 
wood-nymphs  and  white  hinds  to  make 
merry  in;  fit  for  the  flute-like  melody  of 
Pan  to  awake  to  dancing  echoes  as  he  calls 
the  forest  sprites  unto  high  revelry. 

A  forest  ranger  joins  us.  He  is  tramp- 
ing to  the  Gunsight  Pass  with  his  axe 
upon  his  shoulder  and  his  kit  upon  his 
back,  to  repair  the  trail  to  the  Great  St. 
Mary's  Lakes. 

The  shades  of  brown  and  green,   the 

249 


TRAILS  THROUGH  WESTERN  WOODS 

shadow  threaded  with  an  occasional 
strand  of  gold,  are  livened  by  crimson 
patches  of  Indian  Paint  Brush,  bluebells, 
white  starry  lilies  called  Queen's  Cups, 
trembling  feathers  of  coral  pink,  sun- 
yellow  and  white  syringa.  Beneath  the 
overhanging  verdure,  around  and  upon 
the  mossy  rocks,  the  ever-present  twin- 
flowers  open  their  delicate  petals  and 
sweeten  the  air,  and  from  clumps  of 
coarse  grass  rise  cones  of  minute  white 
blossoms,  the  bear-grass,  one  of  the  most 
curious  of  the  mountain  flowers.  This 
ranger  knows  the  common  names  of  near- 
ly all  the  plants,  and  at  every  turn  new 
varieties  spring  up.  He  stops  to  gather 
each  kind  of  bloom  until  we  have  a  great 
bouquet — a  potpourri  of  all  the  floral 
beauty  of  the  multitudes  that  people  our 
path. 

The  way  is  very  fair,  ministering  to 
the  senses;  troops  of  new,  forest  forms 
and  colours  pass  before  the  eye,  the  min- 
gled sweets  of  the  flowers,  the  pungent 
250 


ABOVE  THE  CLOUDS 

mould  and  balsam  of  spruce  and  pine 
breathe  sensuously  into  the  nostrils,  and 
the  fingers  of  the  wind  caress  and  soothe 
as  they  pass.  Through  the  voiceful  si- 
lence, sounds  that  are  on  the  borderland 
between  fancy  and  reality,  thrill  for  a 
moment,  then  are  lost  in  the  grand  chorus 
of  trees  and  rushing  rivers.  A  stream  of 
volume  and  velocity  flowing  through  a 
deep  gorge  falls  twice  in  its  downward 
rush.  These  two  falls,  the  Wynona  and 
Minneopa,  flash  great,  white  plumes 
among  steeps  of  green  forest. 

With  sharp  descent  and  stubborn  climb, 
the  trail,  that  seems  the  merest  thread,  un- 
tangles its  skein  and  leads,  at  length,  into 
a  small  basin  partly  enclosed  within 
sheer,  naked  rock-walls,  whence  three 
delicate  silver  streams  trickle  down  and 
join  the  creek  that  waters  a  little  park. 
Beyond,  the  peaks  loom  up  masterfully, 
sheathing  their  icy  lances  in  the  clouds. 
High  over  the  lip  of  the  mighty  rock- 
wall,  rising  like  the  giant  counterpart  of 
251 


TRAILS  THROUGH  WESTERN  WOODS 

an  ancient  battlement,  lies  the  glacier. 
Up  that  precipitous,  overhanging  para- 
pet we  must  make  our  way,  but  where  the 
footing  or  how  the  ascent  is  to  be  won, 
fancy  cannot  fathom,  for  it  would  seem 
no  living  thing  save  a  mountain  goat,  a 
bighorn  sheep  or  an  eagle  could  scale 
this  stronghold  of  Nature.  Across  the 
basin,  where  there  is  a  gentler  slope,  the 
mountain  side  is  dotted  with  groups  of 
tall,  spire-like  pines.  The  level  meadow 
is  grassy  and  shaded  with  small  spruce 
of  the  size  of  Christmas  trees.  And  in 
this  peaceful  spot,  girt  with  grim,  chal- 
lenging steeps,  the  tinkle  of  the  stream 
sounds  pastorally  sweet,  while  the  more 
distant  and  powerful  roar  of  the  three 
tumbling  streams  chants  a  solemn  under- 
tone to  the  merry  lilt. 

Here  the  camp  is  made.  A  fire  crackles 
gaily  and  our  tents  are  pitched  beneath 
the  trees.  Suddenly  a  shadow  falls, — 
dimly,  almost  imperceptibly.  The  sun 
has  gone.  It  is  only  six  o'clock  in  mid- 
252 


ABOVE  THE  CLOUDS 

but  SO  lofty  are  the  barrier- 
heights  that  even  now  we  are  in  a  world 
of  shade, — shade  of  a  strangely  luminous 
kind,  hinting  of  ruddy  lights  that  are  ob- 
scured but  not  quenched.  Through  the 
quiet,  echo  the  whistle  of  the  marmot, 
the  metallic  whirr  of  contentious  squir- 
rels going  off  like  small  alarm  clocks,  and 
the  mellow,  drowsy  note  of  bells  ringing 
to  the  rhythmic  crop  of  browsing  ponies. 
So  the  long  beautiful  twilight  settles  over 
the  mountains  until  the  sounds  are  stilled 
save  the  tinkling  bells  and  the  water- 
voices  singing  their  ceaseless  song.  The 
forest  sleeps.  Long,  mystical  fancy-bear- 
ing moments  and  tens  of  moments  pass, 
and  something  of  awe  closes  down  with 
the  gloaming.  Then  through  the  dim, 
monkish  grey  shadow  pulses  a  red-gold 
stream  of  light  that  runs  in  long,  uneven 
streamers  across  the  face  of  the  grim, 
dark  walls,  transfiguring  them  into  radi- 
ant shapes  of  living  golden-rose.  In  that 
effulgence  of  glory,  lost  peaks  gleam  for 

253 


TRAILS  THROUGH  WESTERN  WOODS 

a  second  out  of  the  dusk  and  vanish  into 
nothingness  again,  snowy  diadems  flash 
into  being  and  fade  like  a  dream.  The 
life-blood  of  the  day  ebbs  and  flows, 
sending  out  long,  slender  fingers  to 
trace  its  fleeting  message  on  the  rocks, 
then  with  a  deepening,  crimson  glow  it 
flickers  and  is  fled.  Night  settles  fast  and 
the  flare  of  the  camp  fire,  shedding  its 
spark-spangles  in  brilliant  showers,  re- 
claims one  little  spot  from  the  devouring 
blackness.  It  is  a  magical  thing — this 
campfire,  and  the  living  ring  around  it  is 
an  enchanted  circle.  Perhaps  its  warmth 
penetrates  even  to  the  heart,  or  perhaps 
the  bond  of  human  fellowship  asserts  it- 
self more  strongly  when  only  the  precari- 
ous, flamboyant  fire-light,  leaping  and 
waning,  throwing  forth  a  rain  of  sparks, 
or  searing  grey  with  sudden  decline,  sep- 
arates our  little  group  from  utter  desola- 
tion. Whatever  the  charm  may  be,  it  falls 
upon  us  all,  and  with  eyes  fixed  on  the 
ember-pictures   or   raised   to   the   starry 

254 


11 


ABOVE  THE  CLOUDS 

skies,  we  listen  to  tales  of  the  long  ago 
and  of  a  present  as  unfamiliar  as  the 
past.  The  reserve  of  our  guide  is  quite 
broken  and  he  tells  in  a  low,  reminiscent 
voice,  of  wonder-spots  in  the  range, — for 
he  knows  its  every  peak  and  gorge, — of 
the  animals  that  dwell  in  its  solitary  re- 
cesses and  of  how  the  Piegan  Glacier  got 
its  name. 

The  Piegan  Indians  are  a  branch  of 
the  Blackfeet  tribe,  and  in  the  early  days 
they  were  almost  as  noted  horse  raiders  as 
the  Absarokes  who  flourished  near  the 
Three  Tetons,  in  the  country  of  the  Yel- 
lowstone. Back  and  forth  across  the 
passes  they  came  and  went  in  their  ne- 
farious traffic,  secure  from  pursuit  among 
the  horns  of  these  lonely  heights.  The  vi- 
cinity of  the  eternal  ice-fields,  probably 
this  little  basin  itself,  sheltered  the  shad- 
owy bands,  and  thus  the  glacier  became 
known  by  their  name.  Still,  you  may  look 
in  vain  on  the  maps  for  Piegan  Glacier; 
you  will   find   it  called   Sperry  instead. 

255 


TRAILS  THROUGH  WESTERN  WOODS 

The  old  name  was  discarded  for  that 
of  a  Professor  who  spent  some  weeks 
exploring  its  crevasses  and  under  whose 
supervision  a  corps  of  college  students 
spent  a  part  of  one  summer's  vacation, 
building  the  glacier  trail.  Yet  there  are 
those  who  love  the  old  names  as  they  love 
the  traditions  for  which  they  stand,  and 
to  them  the  glacier  will  forever  bear  the 
time-honoured  title  of  these  Indians  who 
have  long  since  disappeared  from  its  soli- 
tudes. 

As  the  hours  pass  we  draw  from  our 
guide  and  story-teller  something  of  him- 
self. Little  by  little,  in  fragmentary  al- 
lusions and  always  incidentally,  during 
that  even-tide  and  the  days  following,  we 
learn  thus  much  of  his  life.  He  was  born 
in  those  troublous  days  of  Indian  fighting 
on  the  frontier,  shortly  after  his  father, 
an  army  officer,  was  ordered  out  on  cam- 
paign against  the  Sioux.  When  he  was 
but  a  few  weeks  old  word  came  to  his 
mother  that  her  husband  had  been  killed, 
256 


i 


ABOVE  THE  CLOUDS 

and  she,  sick  and  heart-broken,  died,  leav- 
ing besides  this  infant  one  other  boy.  The 
two  children  were  left  to  the  care  of  the 
officers  at  Fort  Kehoe,  but  they  were  sep- 
arated while  both  were  so  young  that 
they  did  not  realize  the  parting  nor  re- 
member each  other.  Our  guide  became 
the  ward  of  a  lieutenant  who  had  been  a 
friend  of  his  father.  He  played  among 
the  soldiers  and  Indian  scouts  at  the  Fort 
until  he  came  to  the  age  when  he  felt  the 
desire  to  learn,  then  he  went  East  to 
school,  afterwards  to  college,  always  re- 
turning in  the  summer  to  ride  the  range 
or  to  lose  himself  in  the  mountains.  And 
when  the  college  days  were  done  that  old 
cry  of  the  West,  that  old  craving  for  the 
life  that  knows  no  restraint  nor  hindering 
bonds,  beckoned  him  back  inevitably  as 
Fate.  Again  and  again  he  had  gone  forth 
on  the  world's  highway,  once  to  serve  in 
Cuba  in  the  war  with  Spain,  where  in  a 
yellow-fever  hospital  he  met  for  the  first 
time  his  older  brother,  who  even  then  was 
257 


TRAILS  THROUGH  WESTERN  WOODS 

dying  of  the  pestilence,  but  always  he  re- 
turned to  the  freedom  of  the  wilderness. 
He  is  a  type  in  himself,  who  belongs  to 
the  time  of  Lewis  and  Clark,  rather  than 
to  this  century — a  man  who  lives  too  late. 
And  there  is  about  him,  for  all  his  care- 
free indifference  to  the  world,  something 
of  indefinable  pathos.  He  is  quite  alone 
— he  has  no  kinsfolk  and  few  friends.  He 
is  a  man  without  a  home  but  the  forests, 
who  has  renounced  human  companion- 
ship for  the  solitudes,  without  a  love  but 
the  mountains,  to  whom  the  greatest  sor- 
row would  be  the  knowledge  that  he 
might  never  look  upon  them  again.  *  * 
A  cloud,  heavy  with  rain,  drifts  across 
the  sky,  and  big,  cool  drops  splash  with 
a  hissing  noise  in  the  fire,  upon  our  up- 
turned faces,  upon  the  warm,  flower- 
sown  earth  which  exhales,  like  incense, 
the  odours  of  sun-heated  soil  and  summer 
shower.  The  bright  flames  deepen  to  a 
blood-red  glow  and  ashes  gather  like 
hoar  frost  on  the  cooling  logs  and  boughs. 
258 


ABOVE  THE  CLOUDS 

The  circle  around  the  fire  disperses  to 
seek  the  narcotic  gift  breathed  by  the 
pines,  sung  as  a  lullaby  by  the  voices  of 
trees  and  streams. 

The  start  for  the  glacier  is  made  while 
the  day  is  young.  Pack  horses  and  camp 
are  left  behind  and  with  the  guide  lead- 
ing the  way,  the  tortuous  climb  is  begun. 
Sheer  as  those  rock-walls  seemed  to  be, 
there  is  a  footing  for  the  careful  ponies, 
as  from  narrow  ledge  to  ledge  they  turn 
and  zigzag  up  the  mountain-face;  and 
naked  as  those  steeps  appeared,  they  are 
animated  with  frisking  conies  and  mar- 
mots, and  hidden  among  the  stones  are 
rarely  exquisite  flowers.  Here  the  moun- 
tain lilies  grow,  blossoms  with  brown 
eyes  in  each  of  their  three  white  petals, 
covered  with  soft,  silvery  fur  which 
makes  them  seem  of  the  texture  of  velvet. 
These  lilies  are  somewhat  similar  to  the 
Mariposa  lily  of  the  California  Sierras. 
The  ground-cedar,  a  minute  and  delicate 
plant;  strange  varieties  of  fern  and  moss, 
259 


TRAILS  THROUGH  WESTERN  WOODS 

and  everchanging,  unfamiliar  flowers 
appear  as  we  ascend,  until,  wheeling  diz- 
zily hundreds  of  feet  above  the  basin  up- 
on the  slight  and  slippery  trail,  with 
things  beneath  dwarfed  by  distance 
into  a  pigmy  world  and  things  above 
looming  formidably,  the  increasing  alti- 
tude shears  the  rocks  and  leaves  them 
bare  and  grim.  The  air  grows  sharp 
with  icy  chilly  great  billowy,  low-trailing 
clouds  drag  over  the  mountain-tops, 
down  the  ravines  and  float  in  detached 
banners  in  free  spaces  below.  Broad 
stretches  of  snow  lie  ahead.  The  pains- 
taking ponies  pick  their  way  across  them, 
for  it  is  fifteen  feet  down  to  solid  ground. 
Sluggish  streams  creep  between  banks 
crusty  with  old  ice,  and  pretty  falls,  bro- 
ken into  lacy  meshes  of  foam,  cascade 
down  a  parapet  of  rock  and  baptize  us  as 
we  pass.  In  this  spot  the  stone  wall  has 
been  worn  into  a  grotto  where  the  water 
plays  as  in  a  fountain.  From  every  little 
fissure  ferns  dart  their  long  green  lances 
260 


ABOVE  THE  CLOUDS 

and  feathery  fronds,  and  the  rocks  are 
grown  over  with  moss. 

From  our  eyrie  we  look  down  into  a 
small  lake  called  Peary's,  sunk  within 
dark  and  desolate  cliffs,  shattered  and 
ground  down  into  fantastic  forms.  It  is 
but  partly  thawed  and  its  cold,  blue- 
green  centre  is  enclosed  in  opaque,  green- 
ish-white ice  and  drifts  of  snow.  Indeed 
snow  is  everywhere  in  broken  drifts — in 
the  furrowed  mountain-combs  and  along 
the  level  in  smooth  white  stretches.  Close 
to  the  margin  of  the  ice-sealed  shores  is 
a  grotesque,  sapless,  scrubby  vegetation, 
as  strange  in  its  way  as  the  brilliant-hued 
waters  or  the  rocks  that  impress  us  with 
huge  antiquity  and  elemental  crudeness, 
as  though  we  stood  face  to  face  with 
Earth's  infancy,  close  in  the  wake  of  ebb- 
ing, primeval  seas.  But  for  all  the  savage 
roughness  and  arctic  chill  this  is  a  scene 
to  cherish  and  remember — the  blue  cup 
of  heaven,  flecked  with  a  thistledown  of 
clouds,  the  black  menace  of  shivered 
261 


TRAILS  THROUGH  WESTERN  WOODS 

rock-crests,  the  dazzle  of  the  snow  and 
the  darkly  beautiful  waters  that  are 
neither  blue  nor  green  yet  seemingly  of 
both  colours,  held  fast  in  the  circle  of 
cold,  pale  ice. 

Above  this  lake,  down  an  overhanging 
wall,  are  more  little  falls,  indeed  the 
whole  country  is  interlaced  with  them  as 
though  the  life-blood  of  the  mountains 
flowed  in  silver  veins  upon  the  surface. 
Within  the  hollow  over  the  stone  barrier 
lies  Nansen's  Lake,  even  more  frigid  in 
its  ice-sheath,  more  palely  green  in  the 
little  patch  of  water  which  the  sun  has 
laid  bare.  And  although  the  mountains 
soar  tremendously,  yet  ever  and  anon  the 
course  lies  upward  over  the  frowning 
brows,  over  the  very  crowns  of  the  Range, 
until  the  high  peaks,  stripped  of  atmos- 
pheric illusion,  stand  stark  and  naked  to 
the  gaze.  There  is  in  this  sudden  intimacy 
with  the  fellows  of  the  clouds,  the  veiled 
lords  of  upper  air,  an  awe  which  we  feel 
before  powers  incomprehensible. 
262 


ABOVE  THE  CLOUDS 

At  last  the  trail  ceases;  overhead  are 
cliffs  no  horse  could  climb.  The  guide 
ties  the  ponies,  and  with  a  stout  rope 
clambers  ahead  up  a  smoothly  sculptured 
parapet.  We  follow  him  and  find  our- 
selves on  a  bleak  waste  which  leads  to  a 
small  basin^  strewn  with  great  boulders 
and  lesser  rocks^  dark  and  of  the  colour  of 
slate.  Growing  upon  these  rock-heaps 
are  masses  of  flowering  moss  starred  by 
tiny  pink  buds  and  blossoms,  or  white 
spattered  with  the  crimson  of  heart's 
blood.  And  now  the  guide  begins  to 
whistle — a  long,  plaintive  note  which  is 
answered  presentlyby  a  similar  sound  and 
a  shrill,  infantile  treble,  cheeping,  cheep- 
ing among  the  stones.  Then  from  the  se- 
curity of  her  home  a  Ptarmigan,  or  Arc- 
tic Grouse,  hops  into  the  open  with  her 
family  of  five  chicks  jumping  on  her  pa- 
tient back,  and  tumbling,  the  merest  puflF- 
balls,  at  her  feet.  She  chirps  softly  to 
them,  proud  and  dignified  in  her  mater- 
nity, ever  watchful  of  her  pretty  little 
263 


TRAILS  THROUGH  WESTERN  WOODS 

brood.  She  is  dressed  in  Quakerish  sum- 
mer-garb of  mottled  grey,  the  feathers 
covering  her  to  the  utmost  extremity  of 
her  toes.  Once  the  winter  snows  descend, 
these  birds  become  as  white  as  the  frigid 
regions  which  they  inhabit.  Ordinarily 
they  are  very  wild,  but  this  little  mother, 
'knowing  only  friendliness  from  human 
visitors,  comes  forth  trustfully  with  her 
beloved  young,  suffers  them  to  be  hand- 
led and  caressed  and  she,  herself,  with 
wings  dropped  in  the  semblance  of  a 
pretty  courtesy,  jumps  into  the  hand  of 
the  guide,  and  from  that  perch  feeds  dain- 
tily on  the  pink  and  white  buds  of  the 
moss,  as  fragilely  lovely  as  the  snowflakes 
to  which  they  appear  strangely  akin.  In- 
deed, the  bird,  the  flowers  and  the  envi- 
roning snow  all  seem  more  of  the  cloud- 
land  than  of  the  earth. 

But  there  is  a  sequel  to  the  story  of  this 

little    grouse,    which    is,    unhappily,    a 

tragedy.    Not  long  after  she  greeted  us, 

giving  an  air  of  friendliness  to  the  forbid- 

264 


ABOVE  THE  CLOUDS 

ding,  wind-swept  rocks,  a  Tyrolese  came 
hunting  through  the  mountains.  He  made 
his  camp  near  the  home  of  the  Ptarmigan 
and  her  little  ones,  and  one  day  when  the 
guide  came  calling  to  her  there  was  no 
answer  but  the  empty  whistling  of  the 
wind.  He  called  again  and  again;  he 
searched  among  the  crags  and  the  rock- 
heaps,  then  he  came  upon  the  ashes  of  a 
camp-fire  and  the  mottled  feathers  and 
silken  down  of  the  Ptarmigan  and  her 
chicks.  She  had  been  betrayed  at  last  by 
her  trustfulness,  and  she  and  her  brood 
had  been  cruelly  sacrificed  to  the  blood- 
lust  and  appetite  of  that  enemy  of  poor 
dumb  things — the  man  with  the  gun.  *  * 
From  the  mossy  basin  of  the  Ptarmi- 
gan we  climb  with  ropes  up  a  broken  es- 
carpment and  there  upon  the  very  lip  of 
the  glacier  are  blossoms  so  unearthly  in 
form  and  colour  as  to  seem  the  merest 
ghosts  of  flowers.  One  is  a  dark,  ocean- 
blue  bell  and  another  an  ashen-green 
thing  furred  over  with  a  beard  as  soft  and 
265 


TRAILS  THROUGH  WESTERN  WOODS 

colorless  as  a  moth's  wing.     From  this 
eminence    a    stormy,    wind-tossed    little 
lake,  the  Gem,  flashes  angrily-bright  wa- 
ters beneath  snow  splashed,  wonderfully 
stratified  peaks,  and  there,  through  a  gate- 
way in  the  mountains,  spreading  out  in  a 
vast  plateau  of  white,  lies  the  glacier,  un- 
dulating in  frozen  waves  like  a  polar  sea. 
Even  under  its  shroud  of  snow  one  can 
trace  its  course  by  the  seams  and  wrinkles 
of  a  congealed  current.  It  is  flanked  on  all 
sides  by  the  savage,  beetling  peaks  mar- 
shalled in  endless  ranks  like  the  spears 
and   unsheathed   lances   of  war-gods   in 
their  domain  midway  between  earth  and 
heaven.    Out  across  the  death-white  pal- 
lor of  snoWj  in  the  death-chill  of  the  ice- 
fields, we  strike  out  slowly,  cautiously, 
for  the  surface  of  the  ice,  now  hidden  by 
snow,   is   cleft  by  crevasses  even   to  the 
mountain's  core,  and  a  misstep,  a  fall  into 
their  depths  would  be  doom.     Far  away 
over  the  white  stretches,  a  gaunt,  spectral 
coyote  watches  our  painful  progress.    On 
266 


J, 

< 

-1 


o 


ABOVE  THE  CLOUDS 

and  on  we  go  by  a  tusk-like  peak,  the  "Lit- 
tle Matterhorn,"  and  ever  on  to  a  point 
where  the  giant  panorama  unfolds  its 
mountain  -  multitudes,  its  barricaded 
lakes,  and  the  echo  breaks  into  a  chorus 
that  peals  out  as  though  each  separate 
crest  were  possessed  of  a  brazen  tongue. 
These  grimly  naked  heights,  split  and 
rent  with  elemental  shocks  and  the  resis- 
tance to  huge  forces,  are  the  cradle  of  the 
lightning  and  the  thunder-bolt,  the  cita- 
del whence  the  storm-hosts  ride  down  on 
blackwinged  clouds  upon  the  world. 
And  even  now  phantom  troops  of  clouds 
come  gliding  up  out  of  the  moist  laps  of 
the  valleys,  out  of  lakes  and  streams,  pass- 
ing in  shifting  wraith-shapes  over  the 
mountains,  spreading  their  filmy  scarfs 
across  the  sky  until  the  livid  expanse  of 
snow,  showing  colourlessly  in  the  grey 
light,  brings  to  one  a  vivid  picture  of  the 
ice-age,  of  a  frozen  world  and  the  cold, 
pitiless  illumination  of  a  burnt-out  sun. 
Fine,  pricking  points  of  snow  cut  with 
267 


TRAILS  THROUGH  WESTERN  WOODS 

the  sharpness  of  needle-thrusts ;  the  wind 
whips  through  the  bleak  gaps  in  the 
Range  and  over  the  glacier,  gathering 
cold  and  speed  as  it  comes.  A  chilling 
numbness  deadens  our  feet  and  hands.  So, 
wind-bufifeted,  storm-driven,  with  the 
trumpeting  gale  in  our  ears,  we  turn  back 
from  the  kingdom  where  Winter  is  un- 
broken, and  descend  through  alternate 
shadow  and  sun  into  the  blooming 
beauty,  into  the  golden  Summer  that 
swims  in  the  world  below,  whence  snow 
and  cold  are  only  hinted  of  in  a  white- 
breasted,  mountain-kissing  cloud. 


268 


THE  LITTLE  SAINT  MARY'S 


CHAPTER  IX 

THE  LITTLE  SAINT  MARY'S 

PERHAPS  the  most  sublime  sweep 
of  view  within  the  entire  Range  is 
gained  from  the  summit  of  Mount 
Lincoln.  To  accomplish  this  ascent  it  is 
necessary  to  leave  the  tortuous  ''switch- 
back" trail  in  full  view  of  Gunsight  Pass 
and  strike  out  over  a  trackless  mass  of 
shattered  rock,  upward  toward  the  peak. 
The  way  is  steep  and  difficult,  the  foot- 
ing slippery  and  insecure.  The  muscles 
strain  to  quivering  tension,  the  breath 
comes  in  gusty  sighs  and  still  the  mighty 
heap  of  dull  rose  and  green  rock  rears  its 
jagged  crest  against  the  throbbing  sky. 
But  even  if  the  climb  were  tenfold  longer 
and  the  goal  tenfold  harder  to  win,  it 
would  be  a  faint-hearted  seeker  after  the 
271 


TRAILS  THROUGH  WESTERN  WOODS 

beautiful  who  would  hesitate  to  make  the 
sacrifice  of  toil  for  the  magnificent  re- 
ward that  awaits  him. 

The  rugged  pedestal  of  stone  that 
crowns  the  peak,  drops  almost  precipi- 
tately three  thousand  six  hundred  feet, 
and  directly  below,  in  a  gorge  formed  by 
this  and  a  second  chain  of  lofty  moun- 
tains, lie  two  jade-green  lakes,  the  Little 
Saint  Mary's,  joined  by  a  slender,  far- 
leaping  waterfall.  So  immense  is  the 
distance,  that  this  fall,  spanning  the  seven- 
teen hundred  feet  between  the  upper  and 
lower  lakes,  does  not  break  the  brooding 
quiet  with  the  whisper  of  an  echo.  The 
slim,  white  column  parts  upon  the  rocks 
into  a  diamond  shape,  and  when,  happily, 
the  sunshine  catches  in  its  spray,  it  be- 
comes a  tangle  of  rainbows.  But  now,  it 
unfolds  its  silver  scarf  silently,  colourlessly 
as  a  ghost,  and  the  green  lake,  so  far  be- 
low, receives  the  pouring  tide  with  never 
a  ripple  to  mar  its  smooth  surface.  The 
shadow  gathers  in  the  gorge  and  along 
272 


THE  LITTLE  SAINT  MARY^S 

the  mountains^  the  pines  are  darkly  green 
and  in  sharp  contrast,  the  unmelted  snow 
fields  lie  pale  and  gray-white  to  the  very 
rim  of  the  lakes  forming  a  setting  as  of 
old  silver.  After  the  first  shock  of  that 
sublimity  has  left  the  senses  free  of  its 
thrall,  a  vast  panorama  unfolds,  domi- 
nated by  the  majesty  of  mountain-lords 
flanked  and  crowded  by  range  upon  range 
of  others,  rising  in  lessening  undulations 
to  the  horizon's  rim,  as  though  a  sea 
whose  giant  billows  strove  to  smite  the 
sky  in  the  throes  of  an  awful  storm,  were 
suddenly  transformed  to  stone. 

In  the  crushing  might  of  these  great 
spaces,  peering  over  the  brink  of  the 
mountain  top  into  the  bosom  of  the 
smooth,  still  lakes  as  coldly  beautiful  as 
an  emerald's  heart,  that  half-mad  idea  of 
self-annihilation  clutches  at  the  mind. 
Perhaps  it  is  the  exhilarating  leap  of  the 
waterfall  that  tempts  one,  or  perhaps  the 
hypnotic  charm  of  the  deep-set,  jewel- 
bright  pools,  or  perhaps  some  unguessed 

273 


TRAILS  THROUGH  WESTERN  WOODS 

secret  of  gravity  which  impels  the  totter- 
ing atom  into  the  depths  of  life-absorbing 
space.  It  is  the  same  terrible,  savage  joy, 
the  magnetism  of  elemental  force  which 
we  feel  as  we  stand  on  the  brink  of  the 
Grand  Canon  of  the  Yellowstone,  with 
the  glorious,  brave  call  to  death  crying 
from  the  water  voices,  while  the  whisper 
of  life  sounds  sweetly  from  the  vocal 
winds  of  heaven. 

And  even  as  we  gaze,  the  sun's  light 
dies  and  the  world  is  ashen  pale.  Sud- 
denly over  the  distant  ranges,  storm 
clouds  come  trooping  in  black  hosts.  A 
heavy  silence  falls,  broken  now  and  again 
by  the  boom  of  thunder  and  the  fright- 
ened cry  of  shelter-seeking  birds.  Perched 
upon  a  point  of  rock,  silhouetted  against 
the  sky,  a  bighorn  sheep  watches  the 
gathering  tempest,  unmindful  of  the  mut- 
tering thunder  and  the  ominous  glow  of 
lightning  kindling  in  the  sable-winged 
array.  There  is  something  noble  about 
him  as  he  turns  his  crest  upward  to  bear 
274 


THE  LITTLE  SAINT  MARY'S 

the  onslaught  of  the  blast.  The  purple 
of  the  mountains  overhanging  the  lake 
deepens  to  black — the  blue-black  of  a 
clear,  night  sky — and  the  snow  filling  the 
ravines  lies  passionless  and  white  as 
death.  Beneath  the  driving  storm-ban- 
ners, a  luridly  vivid  light  casts  its  reflec- 
tion upon  the  earth  in  a  gilded  path,  re- 
vealing the  smallest  detail  of  valley  and 
height  before  the  darkness  wraps  them  in 
its  mantle.  The  Kootenais  for  one  brief 
instant  shine  like  towers  of  brass  and  a 
pallid  mist  overhanging  an  arm  of  the 
remote  Flathead  Lake  becomes  a  golden 
fleece,  then  the  garish  glare  passes  and 
mystery  and  shadow  settle  down.  Violet 
tongues  of  lightning  dart  from  the  trail- 
ing clouds,  the  martial  fifing  of  the  wind 
makes  shrill  music  through  the  bleak 
cairns  and  empty  wastes,  and  great, 
splashes  of  rain  fall  fragrantly,  refresh- 
ingly upon  the  warm  ground.  But  in  all 
the  tumult,  the  cold,  jade-green  lakes  lie 
unshaken,  calm.  So  truly  are  they  the 
275 


TRAILS  THROUGH  WESTERN  WOODS 

mountains'  brides,  held  securely  in  their 
embrace  of  stone,  that  not  even  the  wild 
riding  of  the  gale  nor  the  shivering  thun- 
derbolt disturbs  their  untroubled  depths, 
while  their  champions,  the  peaks,  in  hel- 
mets of  pale  ice  do  battle  with  the  ele- 
ments. 

The  deafening  cannonade  becomes 
fainter,  the  sword-thrust  of  lightning 
strikes  at  other  quarry,  and  the  storm, 
with  torn  banners  dragging  low  down  the 
mountain  sides,  like  routed  hosts  in  re- 
treat, follow  the  wake  of  the  thunder,  the 
lightning  and  the  tempest-ridden  wind. 
And  as  the  sun  shines  forth  from  the 
heavens  a  transformation  beams  like  a 
blessing  from  every  crag  and  rock.  Still 
wet  with  the  summer  rain,  they  take  on 
strangely  beautiful  hues  of  sparkling  rose 
colour,  and  green  like  that  of  the  mother 
ocean,  and  the  naked,  glacier-ground  es- 
carpments reveal  the  exquisite  illumina- 
tions wrought  in  flowing,  multi-colored 
bands,  in  subtle  shade  and  wordless  rune, 
276 


THE  LITTLE  SAINT  MARY'S 

of  the  record  book  wherein  is  writ  the  his- 
tory of  aeons. 

Through  the  dazzle  of  the  sun  the  sea 
of  mountains  re-appears,  a  flowing  tide  of 
purple  billows  growing  more  ethereally 
blue  in  the  distance  until  they  seem  but 
the  azure  shadow  of  heaven.  And  far  be- 
neath in  the  deep,  dark  gorge,  cool  with 
perpetual  shade,  flanked  by  mighty 
mountain  walls,  are  the  polished  jade- 
green  lakes  and  the  fall,  spinning  its  end- 
less silver  skein  into  the  untroubled  wa- 
ters below. 


277 


TRACK   OF    THE   AVALANCHE 


CHAPTER  X 

THE  TRACK  OF  THE  AVALANCHE 

THE  trail  to  Avalanche  Basin  starts 
from  the  shores  of  Lake  McDon- 
ald and  plunges  almost  immedi- 
ately into  forests  mysterious  with  prim- 
eval grandeur.  Perhaps  their  dense- 
ness  is  the  reason  for  the  wealth  of  rank- 
growing  weed  and  shrub  that  forms  one 
vast  screen  beneath  the  spreading  branch- 
es of  pine,  tamarack  and  kingly  cedar 
trees.  Whether  this  is  the  cause  or  not, 
the  trail  is  richer  in  vegetation  than  any 
other  that  lays  open  the  secrets  of  the  for- 
est's heart.  Tall,  juicy-stalked  bear-weed, 
devil's  walking  cane,  prickly  with  veno- 
mous thorns,  slim,  graceful  stems  of  wild 
hollyhock  crowned  with  pale,  lavender 
blossoms,  and  broad-leafed  thimble  berry, 
bearing  fragile,  crapy-petalled  flowers, 
281 


TRAILS  THROUGH  WESTERN  WOODS 

weave  their  verdure  into  a  tangled  mass. 
An  occasional  path  crushed  down  freshly 
shows  where  a  bear  has  lately  been,  for 
these  lavish  brakes  are  a  haunt  of  the 
three  varieties  that  dwell  in  the  surround- 
ing mountains — the  black,  the  brown  and 
the  silver  tip,  or  grizzly.  Strange  sounds 
come  up  out  of  the  silence,  borne  through 
dim,  dark  vistas  where  shy  things  peep 
and  dry  twigs  snap  under  careful, 
stealthy  tread.  A  woodpecker  drums 
resonantly  on  the  bole  of  a  tree;  shrill, 
elfin  music  quavers  with  reedy  sweetness 
from  the  security  of  dense  thickets.  A 
haunting  spell  steals  over  the  heart  and 
turns  the  mind  to  thoughts  of  sirens,  wa- 
ter sprites,  and  Piping  Pan,  for  in  spite 
of  generations  of  culture,  somewhat  of 
that  ancient  worship  of  the  Wild  is  re- 
vived in  us  when  we  are  in  the  virgin 
woods.  The  hypnotic  charm  of  the  great 
silence  and  solitude  possesses  us  and  there 
comes  a  feeling  as  of  memory  of  half-for- 
gotten things  lived  in  a  dream, — or  was  it 
282 


THE  TRACK  OF  THE  AVALANCHE 

reality?  The  inarticulate  voices  of  the 
past  come  calling  in  sylvan  melody  out  of 
the  closed  lips  of  the  centuries,  re-awak- 
ening the  life  of  our  forebears  and  reveal- 
ing to  us  a  fleeting  glimpse  of  something 
which  we  cannot  define  or  understand.  In 
this  spell  of  the  wilderness  we  not  only 
feel  the  emotion  of  young  world-life  and 
race-childhood,  but  that  of  our  own 
more  personal  childhood  when  the  pur- 
suit of  a  butterfly  or  a  flower  winged  our 
feet  and  warmed  our  hearts.  It  may  be 
the  scent  of  a  familiar  shrub,  the  flight  of 
a  bird,  or  even  the  shimmer  of  dew  that 
brings  us  afresh,  for  a  moment,  that  gaily 
painted  memory  which  the  years  may  dim 
but  never  quite  obliterate. 

The  trail  is  dark  with  shadow, — the 
awe  of  the  woods, — roofed  with  boughs 
and  so  still  that  we  seem  to  hear  the 
breathing  of  the  trees.  A  sudden  turn 
unfolds  a  little  lake,  bright  with  a  living 
pattern  of  lily-pads,  bursting  buds  and 
golden  water-lilies.     Through  a  rift  in 

283 


TRAILS  THROUGH  WESTERN  WOODS 

the  pines  the  distant  mountains  appear; 
then  the  green  tide  of  branches  flows  to- 
gether and  there  is  nothing  but  silence 
and  shadow  and  the  forest.  The  woods 
deepen.  Low,  bushy  maples  grow  among 
the  pines,  Colorado  spruce  sheds  its 
silver  sheen  amidst  the  more  somber  foli- 
age, and  towering  high  above  the  loftiest 
pines  and  tamaracks,  of  magnificent  cir- 
cumference and  sweep  of  limb,  are  the  ce- 
dars, the  Lords  of  the  Forest.  Off  to  one 
side  of  the  trail,  among  the  thick-sown 
trees,  is  a  giant  boulder  completely  cov- 
ered with  moss,  a  throne  fit  for  Pan.  The 
pines  around  it  are  of  goodly  size,  yet  they 
sprang  and  grew,  perhaps  centuries  after 
that  huge  stone  came  hurtling  downward 
in  a  great  avalanche,  or  was  borne  from 
the  mountain  tops  by  the  slow  progress 
of  a  glacier. 

Again    the    forest    pageant    changes. 

There  are  groves  of  pine  stricken  with 

hoary  age,  bearded  like  patriarchs  with 

long,pendent  streamers  of  colourlessmoss ; 

284 


THE  TRACK  OF  THE  AVALANCHE 

then  comes  a  young  growth  of  pine,  fore- 
doomed to  early  death  which  already 
shows  in  the  bronze  of  premature  decay. 
It  is  a  beautiful  spot,  nevertheless,  bal- 
sam-sweet and  strewn  with  needles  that 
nurture  violets  of  yellow  and  purple,  twin 
flowers  and  Queen's  Cups. 

There  is  a  sound  like  wind  among  the 
trees  though  not  a  branch  stirs,  and  pres- 
ently there  bursts  into  view  a  sight  of 
wild,  exhilarating  grandeur.  A  swift, 
tumultuous  stream  rushing  down  a  steep, 
narrow  channel,  clean-cut  as  a  sabre 
stroke,  dashes  headlong  into  a  rainbow- 
ridden  fall.  The  volume  of  water  is 
churned  into  a  passion  of  swirling  foam 
that  flings  its  light  mist  heavenward  to 
descend  again  in  rain.  Ferny,  mist-fed, 
moss-grown  banks  slope  gently  to  the  de- 
clivity and  over  smooth,  emerald  cush- 
ions, lacy  leaf  and  trailing  boughs,  tiny, 
crystal  drops,  glinting  prismatic  hues, 
tremble  and  pass  away.  The  air  is  very 
sweet  with  a  new  and  unfamiliar  fra- 
285 


TRAILS  THROUGH  WESTERN  WOODS 

grance,  and  amidst  the  moss,  half  hidden 
beneath  grosser  leaf  and  protruding  root, 
is  a  flower,  the  loveliest  of  all  the  lovely 
woodland  host.  It  is  a  small,  snowy  blos- 
som of  five  petals  and  a  golden  heart, 
growing  on  a  slender  stem  from  a  cluster 
of  glossy,  earth-clinging  leaves,  and  as 
though  to  hide  its  chaste,  shy  beauty,  the 
modest  flower  turns  its  face  downward 
towards  the  ground.  Its  scent  is  strong 
and  heavy  like  that  of  the  magnolia.  The 
guide,  who  travels  the  mountains  over 
from  the  earliest  budding  to  the  ultimate 
passing  of  the  flowers,  has  never  seen  this 
stranger  blossom  before,  and  we  find  it 
on  no  other  trail.  It  was  unknown,  un- 
named, so  we  call  it  the  Star  of  the 
Mountains  and  leave  it  blooming  in  the 
secrecy  of  that  elfin  dell. 

Above  the  thunder  of  the  fall  sounds 
a  slight,  shrill  bird  note  and  through  the 
clouds  of  spray  darts  a  little  brown  bird, 
dipping  almost  into  the  boiling  current, 
rising  upward  with  a  graceful  swell  and 
286 


THE  TRACK  OF  THE  AVALANCHE 

a  wild,  free  lilt,  perching  finally  on  a  tiny 
point  of  rock  just  over  the  shock  and  roar 
of  the  flood.  This  strange  little  winged 
sprite  is  a  water-ouzel  who  makes  her 
home  and  raises  her  young  upon  these  in- 
secure, spray-drenched  walls,  with  the 
water-challenge  pealing  its  menace  and 
breathing  its  chill  on  her  nest.  She  and 
her  kind  haunt  the  lonely  mountain 
creeks  and  rivers,  seeking  some  fall  or  cat- 
aract that  flings  its  spray  and  sings  its  song 
to  the  silent,  ice-imprisoned  world.  Once 
the  mating  season  is  over  and  the  young 
are  fledged,  each  bird  takes  its  solitary 
flight  and  becomes  a  veritable  spirit  of 
the  woodland  streams. 

The  dense  forests  become  broken  and 
sheer  cliffs  rise  to  stupendous  heights.  Up- 
on their  sharp  and  slender  pinnacles  wild 
goat  and  bighorn  sheep  dwell,  and  in 
passing  we  see  a  goat  so  far  away  on 
those  dizzy  steeps  that  he  seems  the  merest 
patch  of  white.  Through  this  gorge,  be- 
tween the  mountains,  are  deep  hewn  fur- 
287       > 


TRAILS  THROUGH  WESTERN  WOODS 

,  M 
rows  where  year  after  year,  century  after 

century,  the  burden  of  ice  from  the  peaks 
descends  in  avalanches.  In  the  Spring 
when  the  first  thaw  begins,  a  deafening 
roar  like  a  cannonade  heralds  the  furious 
onslaught  of  ice  and  snow.  At  such  times 
the  Avalanche  Trail  is  a  dangerous  way 
to  travel,  and  even  now  a  distant  booming 
reminds  us  that  the  mountain  forces  are 
never  idle,  that  in  their  serenity  there  is 
force,  in  their  mystery  there  is  still  the 
energy  of  creation. 

Through  this  narrow  passage  between 
overhanging  crags,  the  trail  continues  un- 
til, bearing  upward,  it  suddenly  crosses 
a  pretty,  milky-hued  stream,  and  thence  to 
a  hill-side  overlooking  a  sheet  of  water 
opaque  and  pearly  white,  in  a  setting  of 
dark-browed  woods.  It  is  Avalanche 
Lake.  The  water  is  perfectly  calm,  not  a 
breath  of  air  rustles  the  slightest  leaf,  but 
there  is  no  reflection  of  throbbing,  blue 
sky,  of  green  woods  or  purple  mountains 
— it  does  not  thrill  to  the  passion  of  the 
288 


THE  TRACK  OF  THE  AVALANCHE 

Summer,  flash  back  azure  and  gold  and 
picture  in  its  responsive  heart  the  glories 
of  earth  and  heaven.  Because  of  this,  it 
is  different  from  all  the  other  lakes  of 
these  mountains  and  the  shell-like  white- 
ness of  its  surface,  pallidly  beautiful  as 
a  great  pearl,  has  a  peculiar  beauty  none 
the  less  striking  for  its  strangeness.  The 
cause  of  the  milkiness  of  these  v^aters 
seems  at  first  without  satisfactory  explana- 
tion, but  as  we  examine  them  more  close- 
ly we  see  that  they  are  charged  with  infi- 
nite multitudes  of  tiny  air  bubbles,  and 
every  stream  that  feeds  the  lake,  having 
fallen  from  enormous  heights,  is  likewise 
full  of  infinitesimal  air  beads.  On  the 
other  hand,  some  contend  that  the  water, 
pouring  down  from  the  glacier  is  white 
with  particles  of  finely  pulverized  rock. 

Pushing  straight  past  the  lake,  through 
almost  impenetrable  thickets  of  whipping 
willows  that  fight  like  live  things  to 
guard  from  vandal  footsteps  what  lies  be- 
yond, the  journey  reaches  its  climax  in 
289 


TRAILS  THROUGH  WESTERN  WOODS 

Avalanche  Basin.  There,  in  that  vast 
amphitheatre  sculptured  from  the  living 
rock  by  glaciers,  carved  and  scarred  by 
innumerable  avalanches  descending 
through  the  ages,  overhung  by  the  Piegan 
ice  fields,  six  silver  streams  leap  the  full 
height  of  the  great  rock  walls.  The  falls 
seem  to  melt  away  before  they  touch  the 
reality  of  earth,  veritable  spirits,  born  of 
the  snowdrift  and  the  sun;  white  ghosts 
spending  themselves  in  spray  to  reascend 
into  the  clouds. 

A  rich  growth  of  green  grass,  coloured 
with  broad  splashes  of  Indian  Paint 
Brush,  covers  the  sloping  floor  of  the  ba- 
sin. Standing  on  its  extreme  elevation 
upon  a  platform  of  rock,  and  thence  over- 
looking the  country  that  lies  ahead,  the 
scene  is  one  of  uplifting  majesty.  Below, 
within  the  sombre  circle  of  the  pines,  is 
the  lake,  palely  fair  as  a  white  sea  shell 
or  a  milk  opal  whose  latent  colours  never 
quite  shine  forth  from  its  cloudy  depths. 
Farther  still,  is  the  gorge,  opening  like 
290 


o 
(J 
z 


< 


THE  TRACK  OF  THE  AVALANCHE 

a  gateway  into  the  region  of  the  ava- 
lanche, and  farther  still,  is  Heaven's 
Peak,  mingling  with  the  cloudless  sky. 
The  strata  on  these  mountains  laid  bare 
as  though  but  yesterday  they  were  rent 
asunder,  flow  in  undulating  ribbons  of 
colour  varying  from  red-violet  to  dull, 
antique  gold.  But  between  the  quivering 
sky  of  Summer  and  the  warm,  flower-sown 
earth,  is  a  ghostly  tide  of  purple  haze,  an 
amethystine  shadow  which  touches  every 
rock  and  tree  and  peak  with  magical  illu- 
sion. And  through  that  veil,  as  through 
enchantment,  each  rock,  each  tree,  each 
peak  is  transfigured  and  for  a  brief  hour 
is  given  a  semblance  of  the  divine.  The 
gorge  is  filled  with  flowing  purple,  the 
glorified  gateway  might  be  Heaven's 
Gate,  even  as  the  dominant  mountain, 
royal  in  the  thickening  blue  distance,  is 
Heaven's  Peak. 

Here  the  sordid  world  seems  to  melt 
away;  the  sunshine  has  got  into  our  blood 
and  the  transfiguring  haze  has  penetrated 
291 


TRAILS  THROUGH  WESTERN  WOODS 

even  to  our  hearts.  We  seem  so  intimately 
a  part  of  this  mighty,  primeval  place 
where  the  infinity  of  the  past  and  the  in- 
finity of  the  future  are  married  in  one 
great  mystery,  that  we  dare  to  listen  for 
secrets  of  the  one  from  the  chant  of  the 
falls;  to  lift  the  veil  of  circumventing 
blue  and  peer  into  the  other.  So,  stand- 
ing upon  that  rock  platform,  from  the  re- 
ality of  the  present  we  speed  our  souls  in- 
to the  ideality  of  Time's  poles.  Though 
the  song  of  the  water-voices  that  have 
sung  aeons,  rings  in  our  ears,  and  the  liv- 
ing letter  of  the  world-book  is  shown  in 
the  mountain's  open  page,  we  m^y  not 
know  the  portent  of  either  message.  And 
though  we  gaze  with  seeking  vision 
through  the  shadow  into  the  ultimate  blue 
above,  the  haze  draws  its  protecting  gar- 
ment thicker,  closer  about  the  treasure- 
house  of  Nature,  and  the  sun  darts  amber 
lances  earthward  to  blind  aspiring  eyes. 
So  we  pass  humbly  upon  our  way,  the 
water-voices  singing  in  our  ears,  the  arch 
292 


THE  TRACK  OF  THE  AVALANCHE 

of  Heaven  trailing  its  garment  over  earth, 
still  guarding  the  riddle  of  the  future  in 
its  azure  keep. 


293 


INDIAN  SUMMER 


CHAPTER  XI 

INDIAN  SUMMER 

AFTER  the  Summer's  ripe  maturity 
has  vanished  with  the  first  au- 
tumnal storm,  there  steals  over 
the  world  a  magical  Presence.  It  has  no 
place  in  the  almanac;  it  comes  with  a 
flooding  of  amber  light  and  a  deepening 
of  amethyst  haze;  it  plays  like  a  passing 
smile  on  the  face  of  the  universe  and  like 
one,  vanishes  with  the  stern  rebufif  of  the 
wintry  blast.  What  jugglery  the  sun  and 
earth  and  the  four  winds  of  heaven  have 
wrought  no  mortal  man  can  tell,  but  cer- 
tainly by  some  divine  alchemy  the  dead- 
ening blight  is  turned  into  gold,  and  upon 
the  lap  of  the  world  there  lies,  instead  of 
the  appointed  Fall,  a  changeling  season, 
the  faery-child  of  Nature,  illusive,  fleet- 
ing as  a  flock  of  yellow  butterflies,  a  shim- 
297 


TRAILS  THROUGH  WESTERN  WOODS 

mer  of  radiant  wings — the  Indian  Sum- 
mer I 

The  whole  earth  is  under  the  spell  of 
the  mad,  sweet  witchery.  The  forests  are 
decked  in  a  gay  masquerade,  too  glorious 
to  be  realj  and  our  own  sober  senses  are 
half-mastered  by  the  delusion  that  the 
dead  Summer  is  come  to  life  again.  In 
open  places  where  the  fingers  of  the  sun 
still  warm  the  moist  ground,  absent-mind- 
ed bluebells^  strawberries  and  yellow  vio- 
lets bloom  on  forgetful  that  they  should 
already  be  taking  their  winter's  rest.  And 
it  is  strange  with  what  pleasure  we  seize 
upon  these  fragile  blossom-friends-  with 
what  childish  joy  we  caress  their  pale 
petals  so  soon  to  be  laid  low.  Yet  in  the 
warm  air  lurks  a  hidden  sting,  the  bitter- 
sweet of  sun  and  frost;  in  the  very  efful- 
gence of  life  is  the  foreshadowing  of 
death.  Already  on  the  heights  streamers 
of  cloud  gather,  leaving  in  their  wake  the 
dazzle  of  fresh  snow.  And  beneath  these 
low-streaming  clouds,  slanting  earthward 
298 


INDIAN  SUMMER 

in  broad,  down-pouring  rays,  is  a  pure 
white  light  upon  the  mountains.  The 
light  on  the  mountains!  What  a  revela- 
tion it  is!  The  windows  of  heaven  are 
flung  open  and  the  celestial  beams  of  Par- 
adise illumine  God's  Cathedral  Domes, 
the  peaks,  for  a  brief  space  before  sky- 
wrought  vestments  of  snow  cover  the  al- 
tar of  His  Sanctuaries. 

The  trails  of  yesterday  are  barred.  For 
prudence  sake  we  must  keep  to  the  low 
country  or  risk  the  fate  of  being  ''snowed 
in."  Therefore  we  choose  the  Kintla 
Road  and  Camas  Creek,  where  a  large 
band  of  moose  roams  in  the  forest  soli- 
tudes, hoping  to  reach  Quartz  Lakes  near 
the  Canadian  line  before  we  shall  be 
driven  back  by  the  cold.  The  pine-sweet 
air  fills  us  with  the  very  spirit  of  the 
woods  as  we  strike  out  over  the  gilded 
trail  through  forests  transfigured  into  a 
welter  of  gorgeous  hues,  past  deep-cleft 
ravines  purple  as  the  heart  of  a  violet,  to 
dim  lilac  mountains  that  melt  into  the 
299 


TRAILS  THROUGH  WESTERN  WOODS 

blue.  What  is  it  that  is  mystical,  spiritual, 
if  you  will,  in  this  colour  of  violet?  It  is 
not  like  the  robust,  tangible  green  of  the 
trees,  the  definite  reality  of  the  flowers' 
multi-coloured  petals.  We  cannot  lay 
our  hands  upon  it  any  more  than  we  can 
grasp  a  sunbeam,  for  like  hope  deferred, 
it  lies  forever  beyond  our  reach.  We  see 
it  unwind  its  royal  haze  through  gorge 
and  forest;  we  watch  it  fade  into  pale  lav- 
ender on  the  ultimate  pinnacles  of  the 
range,  but  if  we  follow  it  what  do  we 
find?  Mere  yawning  cleft  or  greenwood 
grove  or  jagged  strata  of  dull  rock. 
Where  is  the  subtle  violet,  the  dim  dream 
lavender?  Fled  as  subtly  as  the  shadow 
of  a  wing!  Perhaps  it  is  a  shadow  of  the 
divine,  the  soul-essence  common  to  man 
and  the  flower  at  his  feet,  the  dumb,  stone 
mountains,  the  living  air  and  the  heaven 
that  embraces  all  in  its  enduring  keep. 

We  pass  into  the  deep,  unbroken  shad- 
ow of  virgin  woods  where  bushes  burn 
with  crimson  rosehips,  the  thimbleberry 

300 


INDIAN  SUMMER 

shines  in  its  autumn  garb  of  yellow,  the 
tamarack  gleams  golden  among  its 
somber  brethren,  the  pines,  and  strange, 
bright  shrubs  set  us  forever  guessing.  We 
emerge  into  a  billowing  field  of  wild  hay, 
fringed  with  trees,  above  which  we  can 
see  the  metallic  sharpness  of  the  moun- 
tains. Shining  over  all  impartially,  shed- 
ding its  glory  upon  our  souls,  is  the  domi- 
nant sun  whose  broad  rays  break  into  a 
mist  of  ruddy  gold.  Again  we  dip  into 
eternal  shadow,  the  horses'  hoofs  sound 
with  a  dull  cluck  as  they  sink  in  and  are 
lifted  from  the  soft  mold.  Often  we  are 
startled  by  the  sudden  whirr  of  wings  as 
frightened  grouse  fly  to  shelter.  Fungus 
thrusts  evil,  flame-coloured  tongues  from 
the  damp,  sweet  soil  and  a  marvelous  va- 
riety of  moss  and  lichen  trace  their  pat- 
terns on  logs,  tree  stumps  and  upon  the 
wind-thrown  forest  trees  that  toss  their 
gnarled  roots  high  above  our  heads  in  an 
agony  of  everlasting  despair.  We  splash 
through  Dutch  Creek,  Camas  Creek  and 
301 


TRAILS  THROUGH  WESTERN  WOODS 

many  another,  and  as  we  pause  to  eat  a 
frugal  midday  meal  on  the  banks  of 
one  of  these,  we  find  upon  a  trailing 
limb,  a  dying  butterfly.  Poor  little  sprite 
of  yesterday!  Its  bright  wings  palpitate 
feebly  and  it  suffers  us  to  take  it  in  our 
hands  without  making  an  effort  to  escape. 
The  last  of  its  gay  brethren,  the  blossom- 
lovers,  its  hour  is  come  and  with  its  final 
strength  it  has  fluttered  to  this  friendly 
leaf  to  die.  So,  very  gently  we  put  it  back 
upon  its  chosen  resting  place,  leaving  it  to 
join  ghostly  bright  winged  flocks  in  the 
sunshine  of  some  immortal  Arcady. 

From  a  high  ridge  which  falls  away 
abruptly  into  a  water-hewn  declivity,  we 
look  through  broad,  open  vistas  far  below 
at  the  North  Fork  of  the  Flathead 
River.  The  stream  takes  its  way  be- 
tween banks  of  fine  gray  pebbles,  part- 
ing now  over  a  sandy  bar  in  slender 
green  ribbons,  then  uniting  in  one 
broad  current,  again  separating  to  curl 
in  white  foam-frills  around  a  boulder  or 
302 


INDIAN  SUMMER 

little  island.  Mild  and  limpid  as  the 
river  now  appears  there  is  evidence  of  its 
flood-tide  fury  in  uprooted  trees  and  livid 
scars  along  its  banks.  Working  silently 
and  secretly  near  the  water's  edge  is  a 
beaver.  We  can  scarcely  distinguish  him 
as  he  toils  patiently,  bringing  to  our  minds 
the  old  Selish  legend  that  the  beavers  are 
a  fallen  tribe  of  Indians,  doomed  by  the 
Great  Spirit  to  expiate  an  ancient  wrong 
by  constant  labor  in  their  present  shape. 
But  some  day  after  the  appointed  pen- 
ance, the  Indians  believe  that  the  beavers 
will  resume  the  form  of  men  and  come 
into  their  own  again. 

For  two  days  we  ride  farther  and  far- 
ther into  the  wilderness,  camping  by 
night  and  taking  up  the  trail  with  the 
early  dawn.  And  as  we  penetrate  deeper 
into  the  wild  the  pageant  changes  only  to 
become  more  sublime.  Clumps  of  slen- 
derly graceful  silver  poplars  with  gray, 
satin-smooth  boles  and  branches  that  burst 
into  a  shower  of  golden  leaves,  shed  glory 

303 


TRAILS  THROUGH  WESTERN  WOODS 

upon  our  way.  Dense  woods  of  yellow 
pine  whose  giant  trunks  hold  all  the 
shades  of  faded  rose,  and  silvery-green 
Colorado  spruce  overshadow  us  and  once 
we  find  ourselves  in  a  grove  of  yellow 
tamarack  hung  with  streamers  of  black 
moss.  Years  upon  years  ago  a  forest  fire 
whose  fury  was  nearly  spent  had  scorched 
these  trees  with  its  hot  breath,  changing 
the  feathery  moss  into  flowing  stream- 
ers of  black — veritable  mourning  weeds 
— which  contrast  sharply  with  the  golden 
foliage.  Even  now  it  is  easy  to  fancy  that 
the  fire  still  burns  and  each  tall  tamarack 
is  a  pillar  of  living  flame. 

The  nights  are  no  less  wonderful  than 
the  days.  The  melon-coloured  harvest 
moon  floats  high  in  the  blue-black  heav- 
ens, touching  the  priestly  trees  with  its 
white  rays.  We  sit  beside  our  camp  fire 
listening  to  the  crackle  of  dry  twigs  be- 
neath a  cautious  tread,  the  occasional 
whistle  of  a  stag  and  the  ominous  note  of 
an  owl  hooting  among  the  pines.    Some- 

304 


f 


INDIAN  SUMMER 

times  we  fancy  that  green  and  amber  eyes 
burn  the  darkness,  and  we  cling  close, 
close  to  the  primal  birthright  of  the  race 
— the  flaming  brand — which  raises  its 
bright  barrier  now  as  in  the  age  of  stone, 
between  mankind  and  the  predatory 
beasts  of  the  wild.  The  wooded  hosts 
seem  to  press  down  with  stifling  persis- 
tence upon  us  and  an  indefinable  terror 
creeps  into  our  hearts,  the  inherent  fear 
of  man,  the  atom,  of  Nature,  the  fathom- 
less, the  unknown. 

As  these  nights  wear  on  and  we  lie  up- 
on our  couches  of  fragrant  cedar  boughs, 
up  out  of  the  gulf  of  silence  the  lean- 
flanked  coyotes  howl  to  the  moon,  and  la- 
ter still,  when  the  pale  disc  dips  beneath 
the  horizon  and  the  shrouded  secrecy  of 
before-dawn  steals,  like  a  timid  ghost,  out 
of  the  Infinite,  the  trees  find  tongue  and 
murmur  together  though  there  is  no  wind 
and  the  stream  sings  with  a  music  as  of 
hidden  bells.  Strange,  elfin  sounds,  the 
merest  echo  of  a  whisper  thrill  out  of  the 

305 


TRAILS  THROUGH  WESTERN  WOODS 

quiet  and  sigh  into  silence  again.  A  faint 
patter-patter  as  of  falling  thistledown  is 
heard  constantly,  insistently,  inevitably. 
Can  it  be  the  beat  of  gossamer  wings,  the 
trip  of  faery  feet  as  the  woodland  sprites 
hang  the  grass,  the  leaves,  the  finest- 
spun  thread  of  cobweb  with  beads  of  dew, 
and  trim  the  dark  pines,  like  Christmas 
trees,  with  tinsel  frost? 

Truly  the  pale  morning  light  breaks 
upon  a  transformed  and  enchanted  world. 
Silver  filigree  adorns  the  most  common- 
place limb  and  twig.  Each  pine  needle 
twinkles  with  a  gem  giving  forth  rain- 
bow-hued  rays  beneath  the  first  steel-cold 
beams  of  the  sun.  The  thorn-apple,  whose 
wine-red  branches  are  furred  with  a 
white  beard,  is  etherealized  into  delicate 
pastel  shades  of  lavender  and  mauve  by  a 
film  of  hoar  frost.  Ragged  streamers  of 
fantastic  mist-shapes  rise  and  float  heav- 
ily through  the  moist  air,  obscuring,  then 
revealing  stretches  of  stream-laced  woods 
and  finally  rolling  away  in  lessening  va- 
306 


INDIAN  SUMMER 

pour  into  the  lingering  dusk  of  ravines. 
There  is  a  mighty  scene-shifting  of  Na- 
ture in  progress.  The  night  phantoms, 
the  colourless  dawn-shapes  are  hurried 
off,  while  the  sun^  riding  high  in  the 
deepening  blue,  touches  stream  and  tree 
and  peak  with  the  illumination  of  the  new 
day. 

As  we  wander  about  breathing  the  bal- 
sam sweetness  of  the  pine-breath  of  the 
new  dawn^  we  make  curiously  interesting 
discoveries.  By  an  unfortunate  accident 
we  roll  a  hollow  log  over  and  uncover  a 
squirel's  winter  larder  of  small  pine 
cones,  and  at  the  same  time  we  hear  above 
our  heads,  in  trees  so  lofty  that  we  cannot 
penetrate  the  dense  canopy  of  interlocked 
limb,  the  domestic  troubles  of  a  pair  of 
these  contentious  little  forest  folk.  In 
high  treble  voices  they  quarrel  and  dis- 
pute in  a  perfect  hysteria  of  rage.  Upon 
the  damp  trail  near  camp  we  find  large, 
cloven  hoof  prints  too  big  for  those  of  a 
deer,  so  probably  our  mysterious  visitor 

307 


TRAILS  THROUGH  WESTERN  WOODS 

of  the  evening  before  was  no  less  a  per- 
sonage than  a  lordly  moose. 

We  linger  on  heedlessly,  much  the 
same  as  the  absent-minded  flowers,  cling- 
ing as  desperately  to  the  woodland  as  the 
dying  butterfly,  deceiving  ourselves  into 
the  half-belief  that  Winter  is  far  away. 
The  air  is  still  warm  and  the  light  shines 
on  the  mountains.  And  that  light  lures 
us  on  by  its  thrall  to  higher  altitudes. 
Down  the  gorges  the  snow  gathers  in 
deepening  drifts  and  the  utmost  peaks  are 
white  as  carven  ivory.  Still  we  resolve 
to  make  one  brave  dash  for  the  Quartz 
Lakes,  set  one  above  the  other  in  a  chain 
among  sheltering  canons  and  flanking 
cliffs.  Under  the  inspiration  of  the  camp 
fire  we  discuss  the  morrow's  journey. 
How  splendid  it  will  be  to  race  with  the 
sun;  to  dare  the  sudden  blizzard  that 
might  cut  off  our  retreat,  for  one  brief 
glimpse  of  that  Upper  World  we  have 
grown  to  love  with  a  passion  akin  to  mad- 
ness. But  even  as  we  speak  a  shadow  falls, 
308 


INDIAN  SUMMER 

and  looking  upward  we  see  that  a  gray 
moth-wing  of  cloud  hides  the  moon.  Sure- 
ly it  is  a  passing  vapour,  the  merest  mist- 
breath  exhaled  by  the  languid  night.  But 
no!  darker  and  heavier  it  unrolls.  Wraith 
shapes  glide  out  from  the  black  mass  un- 
til the  stars  are  dead  and  the  deep  blue 
dome  of  heaven  is  shrouded  by  an  im- 
penetrable pall.  That  night  the  heavy 
rain  drops  beat  a  tattoo  on  the  tent  and  the 
mournful  pines  weep  the  sorrow  of  ages. 

Undaunted  we  take  up  the  trail,  assur- 
ing ourselves  that  soon  the  fickle  weather 
will  be  fair  again.  Occasionally  a  patch 
of  clear  blue  shows  through  the  broken 
flock  of  hurrying  clouds  and  a  wan  sun 
ray  steals  down  for  a  moment  to  kiss  the 
woods  goodbye.  The  forests  are  already 
drenched  and  each  bough  that  strikes  us 
pours  upon  us  a  little  flood  of  rain.  The 
trees  line  up  in  somber  walls  and  as  the 
storm  settles  into  a  steady  downpour,  be- 
tween their  dark  fringes  flows  a  narrow, 
ashen  stream  of  sky.    Through  the  brood- 

309 


TRAILS  THROUGH  WESTERN  WOODS 

ing  shadow  tamaracks  kindle,  silver  pop- 
lars huddle  together  with  quivering  aure- 
oles of  gold,  and  the  austere  dusk  beneath 
their  boughs  is  lighted  with  yellow-leafed 
thimbleberry,  glowing  like  sunbeams.  It 
seems  as  though  the  foliage  of  those  re- 
ceptive trees  and  shrubs  has  absorbed  the 
summer  sun  to  give  it  forth  again  when 
the  world  should  be  cloaked  in  shadow. 
So  complete  is  the  illusion  that  often- 
times, as  a  shaft  of  light  gleams  through 
the  tree  tops,  we  cry  exultantly: 

"The  sun  is  shining!" 

In  another  second  we  see  that  it  is  but 
the  tamaracks  burning  like  tall,  yellow 
candles  through  the  autumnal  gloom, 
shedding  their  blessed  gift  of  light  to 
cheer  us  on  our  way. 

When  we  gain  the  lower  Quartz  Lake, 
a  deep  green  sheet  of  water  bordered  by 
wooded  shores,  the  heavy  clouds  drag  low 
and  a  rainbow  arches  the  lake.  We  halt, 
uncertain,  raising  our  eyes  questioningly 
to  the  heights  beyond  that  frown  blackly 
310 


INDIAN  SUMMER 

through  the  tattered  tapestry  of  the 
clouds.  The  mountains  are  angry!  Very 
reluctantly,  sorrowfully,  we  turn  to  re- 
trace our  steps,  thinking  of  future  seasons 
of  sun  and  warmth  and  other  quests  of  the 
sublime  that  shall  end  in  triumph.  At 
each  gust  the  shearing  wind  despoils  the 
silver  poplars  of  their  crowns  until  the 
naked  branches  leap  wildly  in  a  fantastic 
dance  of  death. 

The  changeling  season,  the  faery-child 
of  Nature  has  fled  as  mysteriously  as  it 
came — fled  like  a  flock  of  yellow  butter- 
flies into  some  ethereal  region  to  await 
its  perennial  resurrection.  Dull  Autumn 
settles  drab  as  a  moth  upon  the  saddened 
world  and  the  light  has  died  from  the 
mountains. 


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